


slow dancing in the dark

by noahnitrogen



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Anxiety Disorder, Broken Love, Depression, Drug Use, Flashbacks, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Murder, Original Character Death(s), Original Character(s), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-09-14
Packaged: 2019-10-05 04:21:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 25,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17317982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noahnitrogen/pseuds/noahnitrogen
Summary: a story of of two shattered soul's entwining when they shouldn't be. like the poison brought to young romeo's lips whilst beside his soulmate, they feed toxins to each other, seeing false color in a monochromatic world.





	1. phil

**Author's Note:**

> this story is the first where i really try to extend my style in writing. as often as i think excessively about how i want my work to stretch beyond simplicity and book cliches, i found i often fell back into a pattern time and time alike. i will warn you this story is not for the faintest of heart, as well as it may be hard to follow. do consider that a lot of what i experience is incorporated into my work and it is just as emotionally tolling to write as it is to read. updates may not be frequent, but i hope they're worth it.
> 
> thank you for reading, and welcome to my little world, (in black and white)

Phil Lester's got nothing left.

A bit of an over exaggeration, he may admit. People who have nothing left sit on the ends of streets, people who have nothing left leave their hopes and worries in a glass bottles, thin rolled pieces of paper.

He's got nothing left to him, but, he doesn't crave vodka or cigarettes or anything of the sort. Doing so, would only allow more erasure of his soul. Would only allow the word to engulf him with it's insanity further than he's already delved into it.

He doesn't drink, or smoke, or cut along his paper skin. At least, not anymore. Little white lines, decorate his skin like stickers to a blank canvas. Their there, but fading.

It'd been a year, he tells himself, though he doesn't have an exact comprehension of time. It only seemed to slip away, or slow itself when it knew Phil needed a steady pace. So fuck time and fuck the universe. It was all bullshit, anyway.

He dose'nt know when he'd taken up cursing. It used to bring him guilt to spit dirty words, let them run from his mouth like water down a rotten drain. But, it felt good. Not putting on a mask for twenty hours time, and letting acid run down his lips. 

Though, his usual facade to fall into was only invisible for this fleeting moment. He hasn't left his house in twelve days, six hours. The fridge is borderline barren, but he hardly eats anyway. If he's desperate enough, he'll indulge on a massive takeaway, and not eat for a week or two to balance it out.

A tiny blue slip crawled it's way into his mailbox the other day. He squinted his eyes at it as he picked it up and brought it in. This was different.

His skeletal fingers reached for the remote to turn on the television, drowning out the silence that seemed so constant. He wished he knew the people on the the teley so he could beg to know the secret of their paper thin bodies and lips.

Paper thin, he thinks, is a weird word. But it's suiting. He thinks, he's like a bumpy skinned parchment paper waiting to be inked. But all paper can tear.

Nonetheless, this tiny blue slip is still aching to be discovered do he turns the paper over run his hands a last time before letting his eyes read printer ink.

Invitation addressed to: Phillip Micheal Lester.  
Masquerade party, dated October 31st  
Dress proper.

There were more words on this tiny slip of paper. Words he couldn't care to read at the time being. He'd made fine friends over the years of moving to this silenced flat. He'd had a reputation that was slowly slipping from his fingertips. Phil Lester: the hopeless romantic with a passion for scrawling words that no one could make out into little black notebooks.

But passions and talents aren't always the same. One could have a fine passion for love, but never witness the depths of it. Never hold a lovers hand or share short kisses in hidden places. Talents can get you somewhere, and Phil was told that he hadn't a talent.

He came to believe that over the years, so he worked hard whether it be at coffee shops or cubicle offices like the one he had now. Scrawling ink onto paper gets you nowhere in the world, and he sometimes wishes it did. He's got worlds and worlds, galaxies and unheard analogies and myths beneath his fingertips. But no one ever cared to listen.

He was a hopeless romantic, Phil. At least, that's what he used to be. His heart yearned for love and an ache to have someone beneath his fingertips was almost as vital as the air he breathed. After a while, he realized his whole belief in love at first had dissipated, staring hopefully into crowds when he'd much rather be home took to shattering his heart.

Phil Lester's got nothing left.

At least, nothing to pull him forward. He rarely ever spoke to his parents spare his mom, who always called first to ask how he was doing.

He always answered his usual, 'im fine, mum.' and she always responded, 'okay, darling im only checking up on you' and they would carry on with small talk that neither of them could care less about.

Phil Lester hates days like today because all he could do was think, think, think. And he wanted to write, write, write, but he couldn't bare to pick up the pen and let his words spill onto parchment because then the words would be true.

So he takes a note of this day on the blue slip, he even stands to fix it onto the fridge by a glittery magnet, because, he simply has nothing to do anyways. He hasn't work because he worked more overtime more than he was even allowed, and he's paid his bill for the month.

Old, hopeless romantic Phil would see this as an opportunity to find a masked man to sweep him off his feet, dancing around this supposed ballroom with the secret identity, heart moving faster than his feet during the dance. He certainly wasn't looking for that now.

But, going meant he could get away for awhile. Away from this deathly silence and thoughts, thoughts, thoughts, and crumbled parchment and spilled ink.

He could feel disoriented and apart from everything and dizzy even though the alcohol likely to be spiked in the punch he would never consume. He could never let that acid make it's way down his throat and into the cracks of the soul he was supposed to have. Maybe he owned that soul long ago, maybe it fell through his grasp like reality had.

He sighs, because his chest is heavy, heavy, heavy, and when he exhales he can't breathe in, so he's left with the feeling of never feeling and everything's so unbearably nothing.

The walls scream colour but all he See's is a monochromatic shade, a dulling effect of what once was so brilliantly beautiful. He has pictures of people who twisted a knife into his heart hung into the corners of his walls. He reminds himself he hasn't taken them down because he hasn't the effort, but he knows it's because old memories are better than none at all.

He decides that watching the news and all the things he avoided day to day was probably making his head too loud, and his mind too busy so he decides quiet is better than ringing and turns the television off. He could hardly believe he had the effort to get up, but it being nine, he let himself slip into the one place that could peacefully keep him warm.

He slipped into the usually colourful duvet, his eyes hardly shutting on their own. It's almost as if the last of his awake self was tugging on the corner of the bed sheets. He always did that, the tiny man the sound around his apartment. He turned into different things, but he usually stood on his shoulder, whispering dreadful things into his ear without an end.

Sometimes he grew so large that he could wrap his arms around Phil in bed, the blackness void of his existence draining all colour, draining Phil. Phil would sit in bed for days upon end, when he became that large. But for now, he was manageable, so Phil turned over in his sheets and thought of all of things he wishes he didn't lose.


	2. party

His eyes were tearing open and his chest heaving, and his stomach growling with such intensity he couldn't breathe was how he awoke from what he previously hoped to be a fitful slumber.

His skin crawled as the cool air hit the bare skin of his chest, and so the black aura beside him wrapped it's black tendrils around him, squeezing, and making his chest hurt more, his breathing erratic.

'inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale.' he remembered his old friends saying to him, pressing their palms to his back and rubbing circles into his skin, making it burn. He'd breathe, he'd sob and fall apart in front of them. They'd always hold him close, and pet his hair, and shush his cries. Until they began to scoff, and laugh, and speak poison words that dripped hazardous waste onto his skin.

So he learned, or tried to come close to controlling it himself. He'd run his fingers through his own hair as tears downed his pillow. And he'd imagine. Imagine someone beside him letting their fingers wander the barren land of his skin.

And after he'd had enough if imagining, he'd lie in bed with the swarming black creature holding him instead.

He rubbed his eyes, blurry vision not clearing until he let his glasses rest on his face instead of the bedside table. The yawn that stretched his lips was relieving, whilst the grumble in his stomach was not. The gathering was this evening, and he still had to get a mask to hide his complexion, though he was sure everyone always wore one, anyways.

He stood up, his head spinning and making him retain his composure, as it always did. But considering he'd likely be active for an evening of crowded people, with great hesitance he decided to trudge toward the kitchen and indulge, making himself pancakes. He'd rather not fall in a crowd, but rather in the comfort of knowing t'was his intention.

It feels like it's been years since he'd had the treat, he has to hold back the urge to think, think, think, because if he does he'll remember freshly born mornings and spilt pancake batter and giggles. He couldn't make anything properly then without it burning into flame.

He smiles, because he's learning. It only dissipates because he remembers he has no one to be proud. Not even himself.

°°°

It didn't take him long to down the dry pancakes, his stomach turned less violently, a safe common ground so he could wander the busy city streets in search of such a random item.

He shimmied into his jeans, pulling a dull green hoodie over his shirt, and slipping into his shoes. October meant cooler weather, and breeze, and warm coffee and brown leaves, giving Phil a pleasant sight when he'd gone down the lift and into the real world.

It was Friday morning, a time where people were inside typing away at computers like he should be. He'd been urged to take a long weekend off, and he had no chance than to take up the offer. That being, the streets weren't as crowded as he imagined and feared. Though, the fear would have to ease itself if he was going to a halloween party, for God's sake.

The air was more bitter than he'd expected, so he clung onto his jacket for warmth. The aroma of coffee struck his line of direction, and his eyes fell towards the Starbucks he'd visited time and time alike. It never really got easier.

But he stepped through the doors despite himself, the blissful scent of pumpkin spice alluring him more so than he expected. There was hardly people inside, spare the small line and woman typing away aggressively on her laptop in the corner.

The woman at the counter smiled sweetly toward him. He knew what she was going to ask, and he tried to stop his mind from going back to caramel macchiato.

caramel macchiato and donuts and winter and faces drawn on the window and-

"I'll have a pumpkin spice latte for Phil, please."

She nodded, and he stepped off to the side, suprised at his ability to speak without a shaky voice.

He wandered out of the coffee shop, fingertips wrapped around a cup radiating warmth. He didn't know which shop to buy a mask from, but he'd decided searching through an antique shop was the most the amusing option. He'd had a habit of wandering into them and telling stories behind the rusted objects. At least, before he started being held down by inky tendrils, barricaded into the walls of his own home.

But can he truly call it home? Maybe it once was. But they say home is where the heart is and his heart was sixty feet under.

His eyes scanned the uncommon objects scattered across shelves in no order in particular, but it's what he liked about these stores. There were miles behind these tattered figurines, ones he imagined bringing them to life.

He'd wrote his most memorable sentences to stories in cramped busses and dirty bathrooms, with tearful eyes and numb ones that one couldn't decipher if they tried years.

He walked down a crooked aisle, eyeing the signs but finding nothing to suit his fit. He just needed a mask, god should he have shopped online.

He'd nearly given up hope when he was walking out the back end of the shop, when a glimmer caught the end of his eye. Love at first sight may not exist in his world but at rare moments like this, luck certainly did. He turned to the object to decipher what exactly it was, until he did and it was perfect.

Crammed beside knick knacks he wouldn't bat an eye to otherwise, was a porcelein mask. White and glimmering like diamond out a dirt pile. It was moulded into a familiar shape, one from a story he'd read and watched, admired with every fiber of his being. It was the phantom's mask, from the so well known play, The Phantom Of The Opera.

He let the mask fall into his palm with caution, his clumsy nature could easily shatter this rare opportune. Behind the mask were silk ribbons to tie it behind his head. It was so undoubtedly perfect, he grew giddy. He'd hurriedly rushed to the cashier, who adored his choice of purchase and slipped it into a paper bag, handing it to him with a grin that spoke, your one lucky son of a bitch.

Phil felt like a child that'd gotten a new toy or stuffed animal, walking down the street. Before today he hadn't been out for twelve days and six hours, and it hadn't gone corrupt just yet.

He decided to go home, eyeing up a few shops, whilst a few girls eyed up him. He pretended not to notice.

°°°

He would say a shower did him well if he'd had the courage to properly look himself in the mirror for long enough.

He brushed his milky fingers through his black as night hair, the colours an obviously stark contrast. They resembled the colour of his suit, spare the crimson bowtie that would ruin his while outfit. To others, surely. Phil couldn't have liked the idea more.

He popped his contacts in, a pair that not only assisted his nearly blind vision but as well as hid his deep blue eyes, turning them a striking red.

With a deep breath, he slid the mask onto his face, tying the ribbon as tightly around the back of his head. He'd disinfected it earlier, for good measure. And now it wreaked of pure freshness.

It cut about hallway across his face, exposing half of his face and keeping the other half of his identity concealed. His jawline was accentuated nicely, and he fixed his collar for the hundredth time before lacing up his dress shoes.

He hadn't dressed so formal in so long the feeling of proper clothes against his skin felt off, but he pulled his jacket over his shoulders despite his resistance, locking the door behind him and checking the knob a number of times before getting into the lift to be on his way.

Calling himself a taxi was both a good and bad decision. The thought of getting onto a bus crammed full of people who would most likely be dressed in costumes that were better than his by a million, made his breath hitch no matter how foolish.

Whilst it was a good decision, he couldn't decide if sitting in a small taxi with a overly bored looking man eyeing him in the rear view mirror was much better.

Somewhere along the silence, the man decided that thumping of his fingers against the wheel and the slight fuzz of the radio wasn't quite enough so he struck up small talk, something Phil didn't exactly care for.

"Halloween party eh? Clean cut costume you got there." He compliments.

"Quite mediocre of a party I assume it to be, but thank you." Phil says politely with a chuckle.

They go the rest of the trip without having to exchange word, which Phil is highly appreciative for.

He waves lightly as he steps out of the car and stares at the building. Glancing down at the blue slip, his heart drops as the addresses match.

The gathering seems incredibly posh to be a halloween one. The building is illuminated and purple lights on the outside, large windows displaying chandeliers and rooms full of people.

He feels more relevant than ever when he's requested his name, and Phil answers promptly, greeted with a charming white smile and ushered in.

Already the echo of a usual party song is playing over the speakers, people were dressed far too well to be spilling red punch over themselves in haze.

He's stray away from those particular guests, instead wondering which of his friends thought it was a good idea to invite him to such a place.

He's already mumbled a thousand sorry's as he squished past people to reach the snack table, his home away from home at public gatherings.

The urge to reach for the appetizing blocks of cheese neatly sorted on the table was tempting, but his better sense got through to him he poured himself water along with assorted snacks he was probably going to nibble on and throw away completely. He would much he rather not be wandering aimlessly to find a bathroom.

Though, it sounded rather creepy, he enjoyed watching people from afar. Being a writer, he'd taken interest on finding new ways to express how people showed emotions. Translating expressions into words is harder than it seems.

He notices a girl who's laughing rather obnoxiously, like a fucking goose he thinks, because there's no filter to his thoughts these days.

But within a second, her expression flickers back to a resting face. Her eyes look heavier than the second before. Her red mask which was previously pushed over her midnight bangs fall back to conceal her features.

No need for a mask when everyone wears one, anyways.

He's going to throw his cup in the garbage can, when someone who's not properly walking in a straight line smacks into him, their stupid fucking drink splashing all over his suit.

something from a cliche novel, old phil would say.

He curses under his breath faster than he could breathe, the other person stands awkwardly.

"Oh, sorry mate." The person says nonchalantly, his grin subsiding and his voice wavering.

"Sorry? You ruined my bloody suit!" He screams, hastily grabbing napkins from the tabletop and wiping at his suit despite knowing it will obviously stain.

He tries to ignore the fact that he looks kindve cool, with messed up hair and a phantom mask and faux bloodstains made from spilled alcoholic punch.

The other person seems to pay more attention then, a fair amount of people turn to the sudden outrage from the quiet man in the corner.

"sorry" the stranger says in much quiter voice, his tassled mousy hair falling over his left iris.

For some reason Phil grabs the guys wrist and pulls him away from the crowd and out the front door.


	3. timothy

He dosen't remember exactly why he pulled this intoxicated kid outside, but i do remember the boiling fury in his gut, forcing him to act so impulsively. It was a sudden jolt, a shock of being awake and aware. Two different words with two different meaning but he felt them all at once, so pulling this kid away and out the door was the first thing he could do to make himself realize.

"Get off of me!" The stranger only thought to say once he had brought him round the front of the building. Maybe he hadn't realized the situation till the cold breeze was present.

He tore his wrist away from my grip, and Phil jerked back just as accordingly, like his grip was stinging him more than the person he was gripping onto because he was awake and aware and he dosen't quite remember being awake for a long time.

"The fuck did you bring me out here for?" He spoke, his words less slurred than before. Maybe fear had sobered him in the slightest.

Phil didn't have an answer, but hd decided make one up was better than staying silent while his suit soaked with alcohol that looked like blood, like poems and tales and songs that he loved and-

"You ruined my suit."

"I am bloody aware."

"You need to pay for it."

And just like that all colour was deprived of his face, his crossed arms seemed to stiffen, like words were poison even though Phil hadn't spoken a word to be toxic.

The strangers eyes looked as though they'd cracked. As though the glass of his eye was shattered and some of the colour drained from his insides and onto his skin, decorating it with freckles and tears. His eyes hadn't cracked now, no. They'd cracked sometime before and Phil would never be able to place his finger atop what it was because this guy was a stranger, and strangers don't have a story until they reveal it to you, or until you make one up. And if they do, reveal what's behind their eyes and underneath their skin their no longer a stranger.

But maybe some stories are different and maybe strangers do tell their stories and simply don't care to speak more with the other person, or maybe they can't, after revealing bloody words.

The strangers fingers come up to wrap around Phil upper arm, too gently to be existent, or to gently to be a stranger. "Maybe I could pay you in another way." He speaks in a sultry voice that Phil hates because he hates the gentle invasion of his forearm.

Phil scoffs, not thinking about how good he'd become. Maybe he's getting ahead of himself. Maybe rainbow hadn't run free his lips for too long and it made him feel like he could soar without the rainbows in his stomach and flying out his lips and through cracks of his skin.

"You need to pay for it." Phil echoes himself and he dosen't care he sounds like a person with no consideration for anything because he has consideration for himself for once, he has consideration for the memories, and he has consideration for this suit that had been pressed ages prior before being ruined. He knows it was quite stupid to wear a white suit, anyways. Maybe he was destined to know and ignore so this moment could happen, so he could falsely believe he could be brave without rainbows or metaphors or words.

He eyes the stranger with cracked eyes, who stares among his feet like their the sky. Maybe the sky is overrated and the ground was ignored far too often.

He connects the worry and the pale scaly skin and he exhales a "you can't afford it, can you?" Which sounds quite rude, but he dosen't care because he can't afford to replace such a thing, either, and that's why her persisted in the first place. He realizes neither of them seem to belong in a place like this but maybe this stranger does and he's just assuming or making a story out of a spill.

He's about to say more when a shriek, maybe a he squeal he can't decipher comes from his left ear, he hears a rushing of footsteps and he turns to meet blonde hair flying through wind, and black dress fluttering in the slightest and the clatter of heels ever so fucking obnoxious.

"Phil! I didn't think you'd come, it's been ages." She says, wrapping her arms around his torso, to which she only as tall as. She has to look up, to speak to him. He remembers the way that made him feel so long ago and he remembers her being face lower and-

"It has, really." He nods, and he remembers how she sounded when she spoke and how he hated it, how he hated her but loved her. Not loved her, but loved her other things, loved what she revealed to him too soon. But he didn't love it either he hated the fact that he loved what he didn't want to.

Her eyes flicker between the stranger and him, then his ruined suit and she raises a brow, as if to ask a question and Phil wouldn't dare put even a stranger through the embarrassment of, 'he spiked the fruit punch and he spilled his drink all over my suit and he should have friends looking for him but there aren't', so he dosen't.

"I spilled my drink, you know how much of a klutz I've always been. And this is my friend," he pauses, because he doesn't know his name, and dosen't allow him to interject either because that's far too cliche for his liking, "this is my friend Timothy, we spotted each other inside, decided to get a bit of air." 

She nods, and she smiles at Timothy. Phil likes that faux name.

"I'm terribly sorry about your suit," she says, but she's not, "I came out here for a light, you?" She says, retrieving a box of cancer sticks from her handbag, and a lighter. She balances the white and orange between the pink of her lips and lights it aflame.

"I'm alright, thanks." Phil says, and her gaze falls to the stranger, who nods curtly with a smile all too interested again. "Sure." He says, and she sticks a cancer sticks between his lips when he leans over.

They seem to find joy in stupid things, and they seem to have no problem with intimate touches with strangers, so they seem like a fitting pair. The guy reminds Phil of Phil, when he was that way. The way the man's eyes searched her body like it wasn't a human, but something else, made Phil feel ill.

After far too long, after it's passed midnight and he'd been speaking to two people who he couldn't care less for, for minutes that extended farther than necessary he slipped away, speaking final goodbyes and coughing as he'd been inhaling the fumes he refused to stick between his teeth.

He learned the strangers name was Dan. He didn't like that name. It was too predictable, too basic and ended far too quick. He liked Timothy better.

He saw sure that the act of bringing him outside to address paying for his spill worked much more in Dan's favor, for, Phil was sure he'd end up in tangled sheets with whatever-the-fuck-her-name-was, and it only made him more angry to think about whilst he walked home, not caring that his flat was about an hour's walk away.

The phantom mask was still balanced on his cheekbones, his fists were stuck in his trousers pockets, and he was aware that he looked bloody psyco but he couldnt care, because, before today (or yesterday rather) it had been far too long since he'd left his house and at the very least he's gone somewhere.

Walking felt like levitating, like with every down-trotten step on concrete was actually mid-air. Gravity was thrown out the window when it came to Phil, it seemed in his mind, and it didn't really phase him, as, nothing was really sensible anymore.

But he did notice after fair time he'd been walking for quite awhile. Fuzzy lights from shops and posts faded into trees blocking the dark canvas of the sky from few peoples perspectives. Every once and a while, a child would skip along with a candy bag, their face sweeter than the sugar bags contained.

He'd walked so long that the sky turned from a dark cloak to a dull grey, blue breaking it's way in between cracks where the sky broke itself. It'd began snowing, too, as it seemed nature had no intention of waiting to shed it's previous skin. Phil didn't mind, spare the fact it was getting fairly chilly.

When his feet ached, and when his eyes were heavy, and when the sky was beginning to burst with colours Phil used to favour, he sat. Somewhere, his brain was flickering between on and off, and, where the fuck am I? And his eyes snapped open when the wind hit his face and the miniscule snowflakes feel onto his nose.

He was on a bridge, a rather high one actually. He couldn't see the bottom of where ever the bridge was concealing, but that was probably just the daze in Phil's brain connecting pieces. 

It was snowing, which meant that winter was getting near, which meant he was going to have to struggle the another month of isolation, trying to hide the dullness with pretty how's and fairy lights. He couldn't stand it.

Yet, in fact, he did stand. He stood on the creaky edge of the bridge he forgot the name of, or the pathway to. He stood with a white suit spoiled with an ugly colour, with a mask hiding him from the world.

Phil's twisted mind said, this is my story, this is where it leads me. And he smiles, foot dangling off the edge as he grips onto the rusty handle, cold with the breeze. He closed his eyes, letting his body weight shift forward.

i'm going to fly, watch me grow my wings. look, look where my story has lead me. it's beautiful isn't it?

So beautiful, in facts, tears flew free the sharp edges of Phil's eyes.

And as his end was near, story book pages excited and anticipated to come to a close, an obnoxious thunderous sentence broke through the symphony of the air, blunt words breaking Phil's trance.

"What the hell?"


	4. monochromatic

With a fiery soul and shattered eyes from centuries prior, his tears of joy grew cold at the presence of another, freezing in milliseconds and burning his cheeks.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, his mind chanted, his heart even, as itd began to beat at the same time the words were being thought, until mind became reality and the poor man was mumbling under his breath, never budging from his fateful spot.

The soul behind him cleared its throat, his neck nearly snapped at the sudden intrusion as he looked to meet the face of his villain.

It was Timothy, broke, broken-eyed, Timothy, who was'nt really. It was Dan, that screw up from the party that ruined Phil's bloody suit, but gave it a meaning laced with alcohol.

Phil's impenetrable gaze never broke, striking eyes never once moving once his mouth had begun, "you've got no buisness being here, fuck off."

The stranger chuckled, an act that only made Phil want to jam his fist in his stomach more. He stepped forward, not particularly in Phil's direction but rather closer to the edge.

"This is a public place innit? Thought I'd enjoy the view a bit." He said non-chalantly.

Phil spoke but he knew the stranger wouldn't listen. "There's no view to look forward to, everything's monochromatic, anyway."

"Couldn't agree more, but its hypnotic, right? How everything can be so dull and grey but somehow, somewhere, some colour blind person painted the sky to be blue when it dosent deserve to be."

The almost-strangers words awoke Phil, or rather the insane part of him that created his being. His mind jolted awake, his body perfectly still, perfectly vertical to the horizontal fate he awaited.

Instead of saying, 'the nights beautiful because it embraced the horrors day left behind', he'd said, "You started both sentences with a question." He didnt want to end his statement with a question mark because that would defeat the purpose.

Dan nodded, "I did, indeed. Doing so makes my reader believe that what im saying isn't based solely on myself, that in the act of asking a question they matter. Because you cant leave a question unanswered, or someone's bound to be dissatisfied."

"Well, your reader is set up for failure, then? Hoping that, in engaging in discussion and exchanging words they'll get a kick off of what your saying. And asking two questions leads them to think leaving them unanswered will disatisfy you when really, its hurting themselves."

Phil's breath is visible in the air, and he cant quite get why the universe intended the two share such an exchange, he just hopes it'll be over soon.

"Yes," Dan hums, closing his eyes, "Exactly. But some readers dont read, that far into words. They take a glance, and the words are just a perfectly fitting line in a story they can only imagine to be predictable."

Phil's feet never moved fron their spot, he dug the toe of his dress shoe into the gravel, making shapes on the ground and burning them in his skin. All the best things come in twos. He holds his breath for a moment, pretending to be the gravel beneath his feet.

When his lungs become too-tight for whats necessary he exhales his heart, watching it fall from his lips and to the ground, bloody and beautiful and hes fucking mad and-

"Im sorry for ruining your suit."

Phil dosent spare the man a glance because he doesn't deserve one, really.

"'S alright. I liked it anyway." He had no intention of explaining, how goddamn pretty the colour red is when fighting its foe, so instead he turns to Dan for the first time he can remember.

"Can i have a moment to hold the sky by myself?" He offers, trying not to plead in the way he wants to.

The brunette shakes his head, "your fucking pathetic if this is your way out." He says, in a vouce radiating disgust. Phil wants to grab his neck and whisper you dont know the half of it darling, its not my way out its my grand finale.

He instead sticks to, "you could never understand." And he hates himself for his words because hes a fucking writer and he wishes he were a poet; they compress paragraphs of pain into single letters but all Phil can think is 'I' when he felt like he should be speaking for all the ones who couldn't.

The man with tired, shattered eyes, and messy hair and a boring name, leaned with his back against the pole bordering the bridge, the only space between him and death. Phil was right on the edge of the opposite side of the pole. A slip up and he was slipping toward the heavens, though he believed he'd never make it there.

Dan's hand gripped the bar with such pressure his knuckles turned snow cold and his jaw clenched, not casting a glance at Phil he'd said, "you should climb back around now, man."

Phil pretended not to hear, his grip was becoming looser and Dan seemed to notice because he cleared his throat and rose his voice, "get the fuck away from there. This shit isn't funny."

Phil laughed, a disingenuous, dry laugh that lacked any sort of emotion, "did i claim it to be? I think not, you merely interuppted my plans so if you dont want to see a strangers last breath then turn away. The last pages of my storybook have been ripped to shreds, i have to make my ending myself. "

Dan's breath hitched at that. Boring Dan, fucking clumsy stranger. He reached for Phil's arm cautiously- oh so cautiously, much like he had hours prior.

"Making the ending yourself isn't what fate intended though, is it? It seems as though the monochromatic is telling you otherwise. I came here at the wrong time for you, or maybe the right time for the universe. The sky's written what it wants to happen, so fucking hop over that pole and come with me because its what the world wants. If destiny brings you here again, or brings led to your throat so be it- but right now isnt the time." His words were stern, cold, and above all knowing. He was right. He was fucking right and Phil hated the universe wrote his story this way because he was fucking crying, his shaking hands barely holding on as he parted ways with death and returned to safe ground where he loathed to be.

[]

There was a sense of relief in Dan's gaze, no 'thank you's' or pitiful embrace, but rather an i told you so on his lips.

Dan started walking away, and Phil didnt know what to do other than walk in his shadow because the universe wrote his feet to be moving.

"Where are you going?" Phil asked, his steps synchronised with the strangers and it sounded like his heartbeat, footsteps on pavement like people walking over his heart.

"Don't you mean where are we going?"

Phil shook his head, "I'm stepping in your shadow. Our footsteps are on my heart beat and they're perfectly tined so we count as one person, being, or thing."

Dan shook his head, mumbling just quiet enough to be incoherent. He spoke secrets to his ears that his ears never requested. Dan turned eventually to face Phil, the underneaths of his eyes painted purple. Phil wanted to reach out and touch the skin, there, see if it was more hollow than the rest of him.

"How fars your place from here?" He quirked, Phils eyes fell to the buildings surrounding them, unfamiliar, unfamiliar. Though it probably shouldnt be. He should leave his house more.

"I live in manchester, near the wheel, you know?"

Dan knitting his eyebrows together and then he clicks his teeth, remembering, "Yeah, the wheel. Thats about an hour away from here, how far did you walk man?"

Phil lifts his shoulders, deciding he couldnt care less. He hadnt a sense of time since he'd believed his time would have ticked its last hour by now.

The almost-stranger shifts, rubbing his temple impatiently. There was confliction behind his eyelids. "Fuck, just, come to my place for a bit. I'll give you something to eat and ring up a taxi for you."

Phil shakes his head, laughing, "im not a child. I can make my way back home quite well." He speaks with little regard to the previous events that'd taken place, he wonders if he can steal the pen from whoever is writing this god damn story and pierce it through his skin, impail himself through the stomach. He wonders if, with that touch, his blood would run cold, laced with ink.

As he'd been overcome with a wave of dissociation in a matter of minutes, things began to become more tossed over, curved and unfamiliar than usual. Looking up at the grey sky was a jumble of crumpled paper stained with failed stories and scribbles. He was trying to walk away, stumblimg around unevenly for no particular reason when he felt fingertips wrap around his forearm, pulling him in another direction. He ripped away from the grip, only to have his arm pulled over a sturdy shoulder.

"Fuck off 'f me, fuck off" he slurred dazedly. "You ruined me fuck you." He mumbled to no one in particular.

A sigh fell from foreign lips he'd never touched and tumbled through the air in a small fog, unfamiliar, unfamiliar. He wishes his name was Timothy.

"You hurt me, darling."

Phil doesn't know why the words feel like a knife punctured his soul like ink on skin, like metal on his thighs and led in his mouth.

The fingers wrap around his palm, grip it tight, foreign and unkind and not gentle in anyway. It felt to incredibly played out, like someone with too many sorrows to count wrote his universe to be worse than theirs.

They're walking for too long and Phil hates it until they've stopped and there are hand on his shoulders and curls in a strangers hair.

Dan, with the boring ugly name. He wishes his name was Timothy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> its three in the morning and im still kindve high but i hope your enjoying my beautiful ugly sorrows.


	5. slumber

Phil's far too cold for comfort. His blood is frozen into icicles falling from his lips, like the ones along rooftops. He's cold and it's winter before he can remember fall passing, before he can remember brown leaves crumbling beneath his feet like strands of curls in hair. Its cold and he hates that he loves how his breath is visible in the air. A cloud of worries and a cloud of sanity and _'you hurt me, darling, hurt me so good'_

He remembers the years before he bumped fingers along his ribs, counting the numbers on his skeleton and scribbling words onto his skin with red ink. Red ink, and black ink, and pens scratching at his thighs, reading scriptures and quotes and _i miss you baby, don't you remember me?_ He wishes someone would write back, he waited for so long for an answer. In old pictures and band album covers he saw faces that spoke disastrous things. He listened to every regret, but he was stuck anyhow.

So when a strangers hands grasped his less-than broad shoulders, shaking him awake from the shock he held, a tremble rippled throughout him. His eye bags were heavy, so terribly heavy. He hadn't slept in ninety-six hours, like the number of age when his grandma had passed.

He nearly stumbled into this fucking strangers arms, leaning into his chest. "I'm tired, Timothy." He doesn't know whether his brain his speaking or his heart, and he realizes its neither really because for some damned reason his lips spoke. Dan doesn't say, _that's not my name_ , because for some reason he knows Phil wishes it were. He doesn't know Timothy is the name of Phil's unborn son.

Neither does Phil. 

So, the slightly dazed, much too boring stranger nods sympathetically, letting his hands pat the back of the man who he'd saved moments prior. "You can rest up in my flat, if you like mate." he says, exhaustion dripping in his expression and tone, the pity he feels for the stranger after their unfortunately connected series of downhill events outweighs the need he has to go home alone. (not to mention the clearly expensive suit he'd trashed before this all)

If Phil was in any state to think, he would have rejected the offer before it was even necessary. yet, drunk off of ninety-six hours of _'stay awake, stay awake the monsters are coming'_ and drunk off of, _'monochrome, monochrome, everything's monochromatic, anyways. some color blind person painted the sky a color it didn't deserve to be',_ he nods, stumbling wary after Dan as he entered the lift.

Dizziness and Timothy, comes into his mind each time the elevator rings. one beep, a steady heartbeat. footsteps thudding against the wooden ground and giggles in his ear. a third one, drawn out and flat-lined like the horizon. Thin like his wrists and loud like his screams, green like the nurses eyes when it happened, her mouth uttering _sorry, sorry, sorry_ as Phil clung to his best-friend.

The doors open and so do Phil's eyes as he stops remembering such things, the doors close, and so does his mind as, Dan reaches for his key. His flat is smaller than Phil's, a kitchen crammed into a corner and a small hallway out of view, leading to the only bedroom. The television sits on a small wobbly coffee table, in front of a sofa that looks to be the only fairly-new thing in the room. Coffee mugs and book pages take place on the tables.

"Excuse the mess, i haven't been here in a while actually." Dan admits, rubbing his eyes with the back of his palm. Phil doesn't bat an eye to any of those things, much too preoccupied with the beauty of it all. He's drinking in the scene, watching the pen's scattered on the tables beside sloppy sketches. He notes the patterns in a razor blade on the kitchen counter. 

Poetic, really.

He remembers the patterns in the thin metal like it was an old friend. He almost feels the impulse to speak when- "Everything's monochromatic right? Figured a bit of color never hurts. Red's pretty innit?" Dan clears his throat and speaks where he see's Phil's eyes have wandered. He nods, because, he knows, but he chose not to remember. It doesn't occur to him that Timothy-Dan, with the broken eyes was so far gone in _exhaust_ and _intoxication_ , drunk off the sky and weary off the fact the universe wrote him to save another man from jumping off a bridge instead of being in another person's pants. The lanky stranger hasn't any intention of locking the door so he falls onto the couch, taking a swig from and obviously old and warm beer bottle. He seems to regret it at an instant as his face scrunches up and he tosses the glass against the nearest wall in fervor.

"Fuck! It was piss!" He shouts, taking his time to recollect himself before he realized Phil was still there. He doesn't seem the least bit embarrassed, which Phil can admire. "Oh, yeah, you can sleep in my bed alright mate?" He says with such non-chalance and ease as thought the last five seconds were a lie. And maybe they were, maybe Phil was far too nostalgic and thoughtful when he was tired.

Dan points down the hall before yawning and flopping onto his stomach in disregard. Phil doesn't have much choice but follow the path, walking towards the bedroom with heavy soles, in a heavy soul, with heavy eyes that drooped from the souls of the weary. Its scarily similar, a strangers house with cracked wallpapers that probably held a million lies and twice more sorrows. He's scared when he cracks open the door to Dan's bedroom, his own had been a hazard zone and serenity all in one. it yelled _keep out_ when he screamed, _please stay._ his bed room mixed comfort with pain, and bed sheets with unborn babies and bloodstains and labored breaths.

But he opens the door and all is well. because as many sorrows there may be, demons lurking at the door, they're not his. This bedroom is not his and to others it is simply a bedroom with bed sheets that are meant for sleeping and not for suffocating. He doesn't wonder, or dream of this new not-so-stranger's pain because he's far too tired for it. He doesn't look at the rotten rose petals leading up to the bedside. He just slips in the cracks and crevices of this persons personal space and lets himself sleep, thinking about nothing other than how he so desperately regretted leaving home 

When he dreams, he dreams of a world without monochrome, without the white suit he'd stained and was currently laying uncomfortably in. He dreams of fresh picked apples and a yellow cotton dress between his fingertips, little golden bracelets lining her beautiful, dark skin. 

_And he dreams of his little Timothy._   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in my opinion this could have been written much better, as well as it is terribly short. but, it does give some important points about phils past, as well as this new strangers. hope you enjoyed!


	6. six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im sorry this took so long! a lot of this chapter is incoherent thoughts and genuine feelings i experience so it'll be messy but i hope you enjoy regardless.

Phil doesn't dream when he sleeps, ans he assumes it's because his minds eye grew exhausted as he had. He's not complaining, his slumber was the best he'd had as far as he could remember. Waking up on his back, he's feels he's far too comfortable to be true.

Phil sits up, a different perspective from his previous horizontal state that represented what he'd hoped was his fate the previous day(te). The room he sits in is not his own, and memories of a far too eventful evening prior hit him. His breath catches as he remembers his suit, and he pats down his chest desperately despite the fact he's not wearing it, but instead of clothes that wreak of something or someone he didn't recognize. His body tells him to jolt up, and his legs proceed to do so, as he lifts himself out of his comfortable foreign state, a room and a hazard zone with demons that were not his own. The blood rushes to his head, and he stumbles back, clamping his fingers against his temples in attempt to rid the searing headache. Apparently he's been catching his breath and waiting for the fuzzy dots to fade for too long because when he looks up there's a stranger in the doorway.

His eyes are painted purple beneath, all bloodshot and red. There are small rosy spots across his face from vomiting, Phil figured, and his hair sits shaggy and greasy, sticking against his forehead and in different directions. In his hands are a white plate and a glass.

"Hangover's a bitch" Phil muses, far past the usual, "good morning" or " _thanks for stopping me from jumping off a fucking bridge and bringing me to your own personal shithole'_

He nods firmly, and without saying anything stretches his lanky arms towards Phil, a plate full of food that Phil despised for looking appetizing. "I may be an alcoholic, but i'm a bloody great chef and host." He speaks with a confidence that's laughable. Phil says a thank you somewhere in the world, but not here, as he nodded and grabbed the plate from his hands and began eating feverishly.

His mind says a lot of things that he ignores, but right now he's thinking about his suit and he's too bloody occupied with eating that he doesn't ask. Maybe Dan hears his thoughts, or maybe he just knows. "After you fell asleep, you were still in that suit, and you looked so peaceful so i changed you into some of my stuff. Your suits in hung in the wardrobe."

And god, right there Phil felt his stomach churn. He's reminded of his little white scars and of the cracks in his skin that he always covered, he dropped the plate, not flinching as it shattered onto his feet, because maybe he deserved it and maybe he was hardly reminded of the friend he had in broken glass until now.

Dan's about to shout, or something, when Phil pushes past him and into the bathroom, kneeling upon wretched smelling porcelain and jamming two fingers down his throat, body upturning violently. He'd done this far too long, until his stomach tossed up, and the remains of what he'd eaten did too. Rainbows, rainbows, he saw rainbows and felt them in his stomach too when he did so. His grip on the sides of the toilet was unsanitary, but it gave him solitary, hope like the grip of a lovers hand.

How poetic. (But what pain wasn't these days?)

He wipes his mouth on his sleeve, (or Dan's rather), and turns around on his knees, looking up from his spot at Dan who watched with such a look Phil couldn't hardly explain. He didn't say anything, but he offered a hand that Phil refused with a scoff, standing up shakily as he pressed his body weight against the wall. He's about to tell Dan to fuck off, that he's broken but he loves it, and he loves rainbows even though everything's monochromatic. But he does'nt because he's sure he's heard it plenty. If Not from anyone else, from himself.

When Dan doesn't move Phil says, "the world needs a bit of color" in a way that a bit of a reminder and chuckles dryly. Dan doesn't laugh, but instead shakes his head and moves out of his way. "How long have you lived like this?" He asks, which Phil cant decipher. Live? Living is loving, and hurting but not like this. Living is and was his past. And he cants say hes surviving either. Who knows the standards for that?

Phil leans his head against the wall as he stands across from Dan, his mind a bit dizzy. He's rested, though, and it helps as he's much more aware than he ever was the day prior.

"Doesn't really matter does it? If i even was to go into detail about my past, you wouldn't be able to pick apart where it began and where it may end.

" Wouldn't be able to see where my pain became my mantra, the blunt line between, hurt, and happy being erased. Phil thinks, but doesn't dare allow his words come to life.

Dan nods. He understands.

Phil looks down again, these clothes are not his. He feels like their bleeding into his skin. "I want my suit, and i want to go home. I live by the wheel in Manchester, you know?"

Dan sighs, sitting down on his couch and looking down at his feet. "The wheel's been gone for years, Phil. They replaced it with a tram."

Phil doesn't know how to respond to such a statement. Words that broke his memory and questioned his awareness, his blindness to the future and evil eye that blended the past with the present

He decides to attempt to cover his words, he doesn't know why. Maybe the feeling that his house of memories was crumbling down, gave him the sudden spark to attempt and recover what was far too broken beyond repair. "Yeah, the tram, things get so jumbled up so easily." he stated with a truthful undertone that made his skin itch.

Dan nodded with a hesitancy that spoke to Phil. He shook his head at the fact a simple gesture could utter words, and decided it was probably because he wasn't sane. His mind uttered, who is, anyway? and dismissed the thought because plenty of people were, he was just trying to justify his thoughts when he realized they were fine just the way they were. messy and ugly, like the rest of Phil. except, it was only visible to him. (And whoever he revealed it to, but who did he have to trust?)

_you trust me Phil, don't you? here, take my hand_

. "I want my suit back." Phil spoke blandly for what seemed like the millionth time that day. Dan nodded and shuffled down the hallway, into his secretly sad room with sad, bland walls like the three letters that spelled a strangers boring name. He rushed back sure enough with a familiar folded suit jacket and pants, and white button up. His tie remained around the collar, unlike the stain from the previous night before.

"Took a bit of googling and hours of scrubbing but i managed to get the stain off. Might have to wash the suit, though, as it might smell of vinegar." He laughed lightly. Phil whispered a thank you under his breath at an attempt to conceal the disappointment racking throughout him at the visibly clean suit. He stares blankly at it, like he dosent understand what is and isnt anymore.

"Can i go home now, Timothy? Or- Dan, fuck." he says, before shaking his head and taking a deep breath, "I'm going home, thank you for everything and nothing and fixing my suit after you ruined it and made me love how poetic something so ugly was." Phil said with the same spark and same sense of his mind and lips and body not uniting to be one. He had nodded towards Dan and began walking away, from his apartment or his war-zone that Phil couldn't ever possibly decipher because he was a stranger, god damn it. A stranger that said the right and wrong things at the time Phil spent awaiting his hoped fate. He shouldn't even be stood there, this place and that why he was rushing away.

Rushing away from mistakes and promises and memories that were broken and, god, Phil just wanted to go home , he wanted to return to his safe space where he bumped along his ribs with thin fingers and drank coffee while watching a movie he used to be able to recite word by word.

But a searing hand wrapped around his shoulder as he was going to go. A bloody hand that belonged to the person that snatched his fate away, crumbled it and attempted to blame it on the sky. "You cant just leave, Phil. Your place is a ways away, and its terribly cold out there." he said like that was something that would threaten Phil into staying. He thought about how he wasnt afraid of sickness and how-

_in sickness and in health and,_

_what's happening, how could you be so close but so far?_

"Im gonna ring a friend and she'll drive us down there. She lives somewhere near there and doesn't mind the drive." Dan stated, obviously not asking because it seemed this stranger could make a lot of people do what he wished.

"How long will she be?" Phil spoke hoarsely, he closed his eyes and tried to breathe in the situation better.

"About 45, maybe, why? Do you have somewhere you need to be?" Dan urged, and Phil shook his head. He hoped Dan could read the conflict in his gaze but obviously, he couldn't. that was fucking stupid. No one could read anything from eyes or mouths or words or expressions like Phil could, because he thought a little too much than he should

Dan coughed violently, a horrid sound really and he scratched at his arm. Everything about him screamed _sober addict_.

"Well, i'm going to take a shower then. Lord knows i need one after last night. Make yourself comfortable, yeah? I wont be long." He said with a smile Phil didn't recognize nor did he want to. He nodded nevertheless as Dan walked off, shutting the door to the bathroom swiftly.

Phil did as he was told and looked around because that's what he knew how to do. He stared after all the things scattered across the tabletops, useless little knick-knacks like Phil had his own. But what struck Phil was the drawings. Scribbles contorted into blurry faces that shouldn't be but were. Symbols he couldn't decipher and scattered words that fell helplessly across the paper, like he'd written to forget. Or to remember.

Phil knew what that was like. And, had it been Phil's writing he wouldn't dare let another eye come across it. Nevertheless he pushed away his correct judgement and let his curiosity overtake him.

He squinted his eyes to make out the whimsical writing, allowing his fingertips to scan across the yellow note pad.

_skeletons (dancing)_

_along rooftops and along my ribs._

_across my mind and the memories of my memories. tempting my evil eye, dangling the bait of my heart by a string, tempting its hungry desire._

_fuck i don't know where i stand, now. i'm dying, i think. i feel a bit inside me that's rotting, deteriorating in between my fingers, mocking me. its been there, awhile, hasnt it? I think we're becoming fast friends._

The brief words are like a high, as Phil reads through the first few sentences. He feels like an addict, shoving the needle that is the strangers writing inside his pocket when he hears the shower in the bathroom turn off.

Its all so dirty, unsanitary and foreign. But Phil doesn't care, and he sits himself on the couch with unsteady fingers. He placed his suit in his lap, running his fingers over the fabric mourning the loss of the stain that brought him to this wretched spot, guilty of theft and unnecessary invasion of privacy and mind.

He waits. Waits so long his legs tremble, staring at the blank tv thast gives off a distant reflection is his portrait. The clock hung in the corner ticks so often he feels words in his throat. Swarming him, submerging him, random things like evil eye a direct reference to the sanity portrayed by the only edgar allen poe, a brilliant psychological storyteller. He wishes Timothy-Dan's floorboards were aged like his, so they could creak beneath his feet and force him to tear up the planks, splinters and all.

These thoughts happen so often, but he loses track of what he's thinking about as the days pass. For now, it feels like his mind and words are being confronted, translated and written down in another universe. It brings him the slightest hint of peace.

After too-too long of being entertained by merely his thoughts and not an action nor the walls he'd previously delved into, he grows anxious. Not a sound was heard from the bathroom spare the very occasional shuffling. It reminded him of something akin to a story he'd read long ago. One that screamed the words, _maybe we didn't fall, maybe we flew into love and his heart ached as he remembered a dreadfully beautiful end._

And as he stood from his place in the cushion, the click and turn of a knob echoed throughout the still house. A stranger walked out with steam from the shower escaping rapidly into the hall. His hair was still fairly damp, and he was fully clad in a fresh set of clothes, a stark opposite to the slightly red eyes and the word hangover and exhaust in his expression.

Phil does'nt ask because he knows and words can't describe color.

Somewhere Dan mumbles a 'sorry' and some excuse for his partial absence, and somewhere Phil doesn't respond part from nodding.

The note in Phil's pocket is bleeding and he doesn't care.

"We should head off now, my friends outside waiting." Dan speaks, voice scratchy. Phil doesn't protest.

[]

He follows after him, not caring about shadows or the way the light moved with them, not thinking about the limp in Dan's step and the way the space between his eyebrows creased whenever he put too much pressure on one leg.

He doesn't think about these things so much that he nearly trips as they encounter the car, small and cramped, a rusty silver on the exterior.

The girl that drives it has a messy ponytail and a white tanktop on, turning down the music as the two approach.

"Didn't know you brought a mate with you," she comments with a hint of an Irish accent in her voice as she gestures vigorously for them to sit in the back as 'the front seat was full of junk, because of that bloke's god damn kids.'

Phil slips in first, and Dan slams the door shut as she begins driving almost immediately. She unwraps a a lollipop that she'd retrieved from her pocket and sticks the blue sphere between her pink lips with a casual nature that could woo many.

"What's the lads name?" She says suddenly, eyeing the two in the rear-view.

Phil feels his chest burst and his lips form around the words of his name. She nods. "I like that, suiting, i think. How'd you two meet?"

And Phil knows he couldn't say that for some reason the stars grew apart and his plans came to a fail and he ended up in a strangers bed in a way that broke cliche and the way people left on their own after leaving marks on skin.

"At a party yesterday", Phil said for no real reason. This brought her to glance back for a fleeting moment. "And your'e still around? Awful nice bloke you got there." She joked at Dan who laughed sarcastically.

"He's alright, so far" Dan says, despite the two hardly uttered a few sentences to each other that weren't meaningful.

"So he's coming along with us? He looks a bit more posh than your last-"

Dan seems to have all his senses snapped in place, as he sat forward in his seat, "Don't bring her up, Malin. And of course he's not coming with us, just figured you could drop him off at his place. It's near the tram, or something." He said, crossing his arms over his chest.

She doesn't seem surprised by his words but instead focuses back on the road as honks violently at a few kids running across the street, cursing under her breath. "Dan Howell, king of one night stands i see. Sorry his drunk ass lured you in" she said, grinning and winking after Phil in the mirror. It made him feel sick.

He looked to Dan who stayed silent, not guilty and not sympathetic and not even concerned at attempting to correct her. That made Phil's stomach turn.

"I'll go." Phil chimed suddenly, cursing his tongue at curiosity. "What?" the two spoke suddenly in sync, and now Dan seemed invested. He seemed like a fucking bastard, that stranger with the boring name. Phil tried to think about how things would be if Dan's name was Timothy.

"I'll go, to whatever it is you doing." he shrugged, though he wanted to say _'what the fuck am i doing i want to go home let me go home, fuck i want a home but i don't have one because home is where the heart is and my heart is six feet under-'_

"If you insist, sweetheart.", the girl, namely Malin it seemed, spoke laughing . Phil could feel Dan's gaze burn into him as he listened to the low buzz of the radio and the girl's light humming. He only turned when he felt an intrusive hand come into contact with the jean on his leg. Both rightfully belonged to a stranger.

"You cant go, Phil, you're- you're not stable you-" he whispered, harshly under his breath. And it wasn't meant to but fuck, that hurt so Phil snapped back, "And you are?"

Dan looked proper upset now, and he drawed in a deep breath, gritting his teeth. "You don't even know me, your a fucking _stranger_. Youre not going-"

Something in Phil felt the need to bite back, because fuck this stranger and what he stood for and all the people he probably hurt. He shouldn't even be in this car, in this universe right now and it was Dan's fault.

"I'm going, Dan." he spoke firmly, not aware or caring of what he could get himself into. In that moment, he hated the person next to him and it fueled his desire to act. The note in his pocket was bleeding, and he wanted to fucking crumble it in his fist and shove it down the strangers throat, but he didn't, and all in the car was still except for the sound of wheels turning on tar, and the hardly pleasant noises coming from the radio.

All was still, and Phil was thinking, thinking, and wondering when Dan leaned next to the shell of his ear saying, "Don't say i didn't warn you" in a too deep, too black and white. Too monochrome.

For some reason Phil shivers when he stares into the strangers threatening gaze. _iwishyournamewastimothy_ he says, somewhere, but not here.

Strange, dirt color eyes laced with something else, and eyelids that never seemed to draw open to their fullest tell him things that he cant understand, because as much as expression speaks it cannot utter words

All Phil knows, is that for some reason these strangers eyes are quite pretty.


	7. seven

Phil decides hes made a dreadful mistake the moment his gaze drifts away from those strange, foreign eyes that belonged to the only stranger he knew (or that mattered) for the past day. His throat dries, and he forced to swallow down a stinging, vile feeling that had wedged its way in his throat the minute he spoke out.

The drive feels too long after a certain silence fell over their presence, and Phil begins to question how blanked out he was yesterday, walking for far too long on feet that felt as though he weren't moving at all in the first place. A steady pattern of one, two footsteps against pavement and a click of his dress shoes and a gust of wind blowing past his hair and leading him to his mistaken fate.

In the window, shops buzzed by, a blur of the grass and blur of the people all lumped together until they slowed, giving Phil a chance to breathe and make out the shapes that created the buildings and shops he'd seen since he moved to the town on his own. Familiar, again. He breathed in a breath that spoke, security, or at least the slightest bit of it, and he eased back in the seat, focusing on the flicker of the lighter in the front seat, as Malin took a drag from her cigarette. Does everyone smoke these days? Phil wonders, as he watches the slight cloud part way from her lips and blow out the cracked window. Phil looks at her eyes rather intently through the rear-view and a moment he see's more than he should have. Eyes are like pathways to a persons soul, and he feels like hes overstepped when she stares at him back, deciding to speak.

"Phil honey, you don't mind if i smoke do you?" she says with an undertone that pries its way under his skin, and makes the churn in his stomach come to a near close, and he shakes his head. "Not at all, thanks" he says smiling unsteadily and looking over to Dan who seemed as though he hadn't budged the whole time. He laughed at this encounter, for whatever reason, letting out a scoff with haste. "You're gonna have to be much more tolerant of second hand smoke where were going, mate. Not your crowd, is it?" He says, for some reason too keen on proving himself right to let go. Phil cant blame him, considering if he'd swallowed his pride and accepted defeat he could be home in peace right now. 

Phil wants to say you have no idea, and, 'fuck you and your pretty eyes and boring name, i want a fix' but doesn't conjure his words because he never intended to. He truly decides against speaking when Malin clears her throat and halts the car to a violently halt in front of a brick building, piled high and breaking into the sky. beside the building is a black metal gate leading off into some alleyway where he swears panicked footsteps patter and the echoes of a silent wail grow faint.

In his mind, Phil writes a child there, stood in his school uniform, or rather the tattered remains of it. His sleeves are rolled up and teared, blazer unbuttoned, and shorts muddied. His bloody knees shake in the cold, and he grabs the straps of his backpack with a fervor that turns the skin of his knuckles something akin to a pale ivory white.

He blinks, and the boys gone. 

The cars light humming and the buzz of the radio comes to a close, and Malin turns in her seat, grin lopsided and eyes gentle as she stares after the two men sat in the back seat, one of which who's eyes have averted either of the two the whole trip. 

"Oh come off it, Dan, and give the guy a break? So what if i wants to have a bit of fun." she says, and nudges him lightly, making him sigh. He seems only less tense in the slightest, and he closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose, exhaling warily. "I s'pose your right, lets go then." He says, nodding towards Phil and opening the door to step out of the car, one impossibly lanky leg at a time. He's taller than Phil by a bit, he now realizes, which only makes him more intimidating. Phil doesn't say anything, stretching out his arms out once he's stepped out.

He finally is aware of a plethora of Malin's features once shes stood and locks the car. She's shorter than expected and even then her boots make her falsely appear taller, but her arms hang low beside her torso. She wears a plain white tanktop, and pulls a black zip-up over her shivering shoulders, beginning to walk away and keeping Phil lumbering over her over her, a step away from her heels. 

He swears he can hear a heart beat in the pattern of their steps, and it was most likely his own as she moved so accordingly, aware of every crack int the pavement and every step of the way as they paced down the sidelines of this town, not once admiring a detail like Phil had. It was inconceivable that she somehow walked faster then the both of the two men, who had quite the advantage given their height. Dan seems to notice the way Phil needs to catch his breath from half-running because he grasps her shoulder lightly and stops her in her tracks.

"Quit walking so damn fast, you cant want a fix that brutally at nine in the morning, right?"1 Dan says with a scoff that is easy to look past, see through and decipher. He's the secret poet that writes about lovely bones and has a three letter name that spells out something much longer. The note is searing into Phil's thigh now.

His idiotic words, though quite obviously being ones spoken out of reflection of his own thoughts welded and formed into an accusation made Malin halt altogether, her lazy ponytail swaying with her as she turned to face Dan with a much too dramatic scowl. 

"I have business to do with the fuckin' prick, you're the one who piped in to tag along knowing there'd be some guy or girl who fancied you enough to let you snort some of their Molly. I may be fucked but don't mistake me for a junkie- you hear? Look in a mirror and think twice before you pull that." 

And like it hadn't happened she turns and struts on, Dan's features untouched and unmoved. He'd heard his share, and from what it seemed the two were considerably close so such words could hardly take a toll. When they keep walking Phil feels as though he's a distant spectator, a wrong coincidence and a flaw in universe that was placed in the wrong spot in the the wrong time. A dried out brown patch of grass on a lawn, not unnoticed but nearly unbearably there, accepted as the out stander he was. Why was here? And why was he so fucking stubborn?

After a few blocks of this, swarming thoughtful conscience that cursed him so, Malin stopped at a house, high hanging with cracked white paint along its door. She turned to Phil, and took a deep breath, brushing a strand hair of hanging hair from his face and giving him a smile that looked much too forced. "Just go along with what i say, yeah? I'll give you something afterward for your effort." she says, and turns back to the door. 

Phil turns his eyes to Dan, who's chest falls the same time the wind picks up. He gives him a side glance that lacks empathy and is laced with it all at the same time and that's not fair, Phil thinks. But what ever is?

Three raps on the door, and its cracked open, hazy red and green eyes peering out. The veins run throughout the white of their eye into the back of their mind. It takes a few blinks and a hacking cough before the person snaps out of it and seems to recognize Malin, pulling the door back more to reveal a barred yellow smile, connected to face with brutal bags under their eyes, and dirty blonde hair up to lanky shoulders, falling past a shaggy unshaven stubble.

"Malin! It's nice to see you, love." a cough, and a sputter before he reaches out to touch her hair. Her eyes roll to her skull and she bats his hand away. "Im not here for you, J, and you know it." she says, and grabs Phils hand in such a way he thinks his bones might crack the minute her hand slips away. She pushes past the guy bringing Phil with her, who now had Dan at his heels. Dan mumbles something under his breath to the guy, but Phil couldnt care, considering he was being pulled into a new room altogether by a reasonably strong woman nearly a foot shorter than him. Somewhere he felt eyes on his neck and he doesn't have to think twice of who it might be. 

It feels like every step is weighted a bit more, and Phil decides its because the ground is new. He looks up from it for the first time to see too half-naked women draped with their legs atop eachother, giggling and holding their phone for their dear life. They stop at an instant of the threes entrance, and their eyelashes bat at him. His stomach turns.

In the distance music is booming on a speaker, and scrambled eggs are placed along the ground on paper plates. Phil wants to go home, and the grip on his fingers is tight, buts its grounfing him, keeping him level at this moment. He tunes back in and a man is sat in front of Malin and him, short messy midnight hair falling over his eyes.

"It's good to see you, Mal, its been awhile. You, too Dan." he speaks, eating as he does so, "And who's this?" he says, eyeing Phil up, eyes flickering between the connected points in their hands. Phil feels his throat seize and he coughs up, "Phil" to which Malin chimes in, "a good friend" as if they hadn't met the same day.

"No use in standing there, sit down yeah?" He says, and his head jerks to the vacant cushions beside him. Phil tries not to think of the vast amount of things that may have happened there, but fails miserably. He's sat next to one of those girls now, leg pressed to her exposed lower thigh. He's also beside Dan, who hes determined isn't much safer, even considering the night before. It feels like she breathing down his neck and inhaling whats left of him. 

"You've got what i requested, yeah?" the guy requests in a scruffy voice to which Malin nods and shuffles in her front jean pocket. A small, see through bag appears, first with two blue pills as fluorescent as his eyes, then another stuffed to the brim with a powdery substance paler than Phil's skin, plumper than the downturn of his lips. The man's eyes light up, and he snatches the bags away, peering closely with eyes of cold, toxic affection. A look like that of love, disassociating and as though the blood in your veins depend upon the affection youv'e placed and grounded in something or someone you shouldn't have. The look screams 'you've got me in your grip' and 'let me go, i want my heart back' and 'never look away from my eyes, i might fall away'.

Pity settles in Phil's gut, and he uses the excuse that this man has done terrible things to try and rid it.

"What did i do to deserve you, lil mally," he coos and looks at her with a bright grin, rubbing his hand across her shoulder. Phil seems to be the only one to notice the way her skin crawls with goosebumps, making her tug her sweater sleeves down further, or how her shoulders shake in the slightest. He reaches into his pocket roughly and pulls out a wad of cash rolled into a rubber band. Mal's eyes widen, and her hands shake as she reaches for the cash as though it were a time-bomb. Maybe it were, maybe the news that would follow was far more devastating. 

"Mikey, this is nearly half more than what you owe me"she says sympathetic, o rather far too knowing, aware. No one ever does anyone favors.

He licks his lips, terribly chapped but far too appealing for anyone's own good. "JJ really misses you Mal," he begins, going no where good. He clicks his tongue and grits his teeth. "He's been on my ass since you two broke it off and all-" this alone is enough for Mal to edge forward where shes sitting, fingernails digging into palms as she clenches her fists.  
"Broke it off? We weren't ever jack shit, hook-ups and nights out the fucker got attached." She says with acid in her tone and something else. 

"I couldn't give a shit about what happened between you two, point is, the bloke has been coming around, smoking my shit and wailing to me for months. I'm sick of it."

"How's this any of my concern, exactly?" 

He huffs through his nose, then suddenly his grin is much more terrifying than before. Like icy cold knives pressing to skin but never enough to hurt, only to make the skin crawl.

Phil can feel the air stiffen, and Dan shifts his gaze to him for the slightest moment, suffocating and frightened. He shuffles in his spot and Phil doesn't mind this time. The press of their arms is the safest dangerous thing he has right now, and its keeping him there.

Mikey, he thinks his name is, pull a thin blunt from his pocket, and it reminds Phil of full bellies and crashing glass and cigarette smoke and thin lines of white powder up his nostrils and through to his hear. A faraway, too close time in hellish paradise.

He lights it, and takes a long drag, blowing the smoke through the air and handing it off to Phil, who shakes as he takes it from his nimble fingers. A long, deep breath and his lips surround it, and hes back to where he used to be. Another drag, another heartbeat, another life gone and soon his mind is hazy and he coughs the smoke up, the burn in his chest spreading through his fingertips as he passes it to Dan.

Malin swallows, and tries once more. "What are you asking of me?"

The girl next to him giggles for no good reason, and her hands trace up Phil's arm, breath impossibly close. He feels sick.

And at once, the figure laughs. Nothing was humorous.

Somewhere a bullet splits through the air, and somewhere someone cries for no one. 

Phil's fingers find Dan's in his lap, and his mouth tastes of iron and led, vile and disgusting.

He wants to go home and he wants Dan's name to be timothy and he wants the sky to be a different color. 

"That's simple, Mal, i want you to kill him."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this took soo long to finish but its finally here! this chapter has a few turning points and small important details that really emphasize a glimpse of the characters background and set the story into motion, and im so excited to continue breaking down these characters and how they came to the point they are. its not my best, but i hope you enjoyed!


	8. postcriptum

It was if the air had divided into a hotness and a coldness, and either side was both burning and chilling Phil all at once. The hair on his arms stood at an instant, and something inside him made his heart burn and squeeze the grip he had on this stranger more fiercely. A chilling laugh emitted from the deep of Malin's throat, and broke through the air like a cool blade, cunning, precise and quick. It only made him shudder more.

"You're fucking crazy, you know that? Don't kid that way that's-"

"Mental? Oh, darling why're so panicked? If you truly didn't despise him you wouldn't have been so quick to take my words so serious , and laugh, defending him. We all know its the only right thing to do." Mikey hums, un-fazed.

Her fist tightens, she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and scoffs. "All this over what? A few bags of pot and whining?"

Its his turn to laugh now, though nothing was funny. Nothing ever was funny, was it? Laughter is the best medicine but why' d you need the medicine in the first place? What part of the twisted world said, hey, why don't you mask over your troubles with a joke that's far too self-deprecating and a joke that hurts and a joke that kills. a killing joke. Maybe, Phil thought he'd go out with a bang, a punchline that strikes too hard. 

"We both know that's not nearly the half of it. How'd you even look at him after-"

She's about to scream, maybe, but like clockwork and like too-perfect timing the man from the front door appears from being out through the back. His smile is feline like and thin, hair raggedy and tossed around.

The room fell silent, the girl on the other side of the couch whispered into the girl next to Phil's ear and soon they were both staring him down like prey. The previous grip on his arm had been relieved but now her hands snaked over his lower thigh. He feels sick and he feels wrong and-

"What're you guys chattin' away about?" JJ says, with an all too unknowing interested stare, he peeks in from the kitchen which led to a glass sliding open back door. He's holding his arms together over his chest and shivering. 

Mikey laughs and waves JJ over, to which the man gleefully bound forward and takes a set on the shaggy carpet below Phil's feet. He paws at the paper plate on the table and turns his head to stare, "oh nothing but your possible death" he says, as a joke, Mikey thinks. Phil hopes it is too. some sick twisted thing to mess with a strangers head. Everything feels cold, and JJ laughs uneasily.

For some reason, Phil takes another drag of the blunt unbeknownst to himself he'd been holding, because everything's a bit loud, and everything's far too distant and the silence beats in the back of his skull like the distant footsteps pounding upstairs, the scene around him is a cacophony of sounds and an epiphany of color that was lacking in the sky. Another and he eases more, jaw unclenching and the hand on his thigh less prominent. 

A few more, and he's gone a bit, so Phil hands it over to JJ on the floor who stares up at him with puppy-dog eyes, he could almost see the yearn for his sanity in his gaze. He mutters a 'thanks' with a grin, and Mikey claps, startling the lot of the. He sits up, and looks between the grasp of Dan and Phil, raising an eyebrow, but not muttering a word. "So, how'd you get to meet the infamous Dan and Malin duo, Phil?"

Malin shifts and Dan's grasp is lost, all he knows are the grey walls. All he knows is that the world is monochrome and he is not meant to be here, but hes been pulled into something he knows is inescapable.

"At a party a few months ago, Dan's clumsy ass bumped into me and ruined my suit, he offered a cigarette, and once we walked outside Mal was there, i guess we just kinda hit it off." He shrugged, and Mikey nods.

"Why haven't i seen you, then?" he queries, and clicks his teeth. 

Phil suddenly feels as though every eye of the world is on him, as if the walls are closing in and he's being interrogated to death. It always feel like this, he remembers, just turn yourself off a bit.

"Guess iv'e just been busy, working and the sort." he chuckles dryly, and Mikey hums. 

"That's just life i suppose. Well, either way, its nice to meet you finally." his gaze falls upon the girl beside Phil, her black hair falling over her face and into her lap, she tucks her hair behind her ear. "Oh, Vic give the man some space will you?" he shakes his head, and the girl shifts away a bit, rolling her eyes. "whatever, you're no fun Mikey." she pouts.

"Well, beside you there is Vic, and beside Dan is Hazel. They just sort of stick around. Anyways, im sorry you've had to hear such... taxing deals between me and Mal. Business is business, right? Well, this stays between us, yeah?" He glances at JJ swiftly who's far gone, singing to himself as he plays with the shaggy stained carpet. 

"Yeah of course" he nods, to which he spots Mal on her phone nervously shifting in her spot as she bites her lip and glances up.

"You've got a girlfriend? Or boyfriend?" Vic, apparently, chimes up hopefully. Dan stares after him, and so does Mal, curious themselves, apparently. If only they knew.

Phil scratches the back of his neck and chuckles a bit in a breathy way once he shakes his head no, because he just cant catch a fucking breath and nothing feels right anymore. He's suffocating and the two girls laugh and hum to themselves and he feels like a psychopath when he wants to pull thse precious perfect strands of hair from each of their skulls. (He cant help but notice that Dan's hair looks quite soft, too.)

When Mikey stands, Phil is caught of guard. For one, as intimidating as he is the guy is shorter than expected. But by him standing, something was being put in place. A new event ready to occur, a new location or destination because the ringleader of this fucked up group was about to make orders. 

"Well, its been a minute since the group of us has been together yeah? Remember those days, Mal?" he glances at her, and Phil cant help but notice how his eye twinges in the slightest, his lips barely budge and his head cocks to the left. He's remembered, something, or a series of somethings. Memories playing in his head, like a flash of lightning. Dangerous and bright and- Phil's probably paying too much attention to this mans face and turns away when he finally determines something went terribly wrong between the lot of them somewhere along the line.

Mikey doesn't wait for any sort of response from her, but instead turns his face to Phil, "And we might as well treat our new friend here to a treat, hm? Lets get going, then, there's far more to the circus than the waiting line."

 

\--

The tips of his fingers feel detached from the rest of him, his ears a tint of pink from the slight breeze as he walks detached from the group, but very much so close to them. It seemed Vic in her short span of seeing Phil had grown quite attached, following close enough to brush their swaying hands every so often. He's still eased, and uneasy at once which he doesn't understand nor try to. 

Phil tunes in closely to the thrum of their footsteps as Mikey leads them on, not entirely keen on explaining where they were heading to. Phil cant explain why his gaze shifts to Dan every moment or so, deciding only to blame it on the fact that he had known him the longest out of the bunch, (though, it was by only a few hours, and a long night.) His lack of interest of the destination and stare towards the other girl, Hazel, Phil did take into note. Beady like eyes and whispering into her ear every so often made Phil huff uneasily and wonder, why he was brought into this moment and how he would fit into all of this. 

He doesn't now why the sky is a darker shade than before, midday to evening drawing near yet the sun was beaming, a contrast to the chill earlier in the morning. Vic, for the millionth time it seems, grabs his attention but this time her lips move, her fingers tapping against his forearm so gently he's suprised she's able to grab his attention. 

"You seem a it gone there, Phil" she says, tucking a strand of curly hair away. It loooks much less menacing then it had before. "Are you okay?" she says, and for some reason he decides to get a good look at her now. Her skin is something to akin to a dark mahogany, her eyes nothing more or nothing less than a brown colour. He pushes away the thought of Dan's glassy, dirt coloured eyes and instead focuses on the tiny gap between her pearl white teeth as he mouth partially hangs open, plump lips inviting and body curved in every that any man or woman desired. 

He thinks, too, what is the definition of okay? a word made plainly to be answered the same, mediocre, unrevealing. Phil decides, he hasn't much time to come up with an answer that matches his thoughts and isn't so startling that she trips over her feet as the walk beside the rest of everyone. 

"I'm just thinking a lot, is all." he manages a smile. 

"What about?", she inquires.

"A lot really, my thoughts really never end. No one want's to hear." He can feel Dans stare on him now and he fully intends on ignoring it.

"i want to hear whats on your mind, love." she says, and phil knows she says it because it's easy. polite. There's no one quite like him, he thinks. No one thinks about the world anymore. So he chooses and easy answer, too.

"Just you, then. You're on my mind."

...

Mikey brings the lot of them to a place thats closed off to the rest of everything, blended in and strikingly different on ths inside at once. Its building stands tall, and two ushers stand by the door, mouths a thin cement line. JJ, who begins to strut confidently toward the two, very obviously built man and women, is pushed back by Mikey at an instant, who instead leads the lot of them with such bold confidence, Phil envies him. 

He leans over to the tallest mans ear, whispering and gesturing to the group. Tightly packed, he hands something to him swiftly with darting eyes, and the man pulls it into his jacket, seemingly far more nerved than before. 

Mikey's grin portrudes among the span of his features and walks in, holding the door for them and revealing a core of a setting that sets Phil off balance. He realises, he hasnt properly been to a party for years before the past days, with that his older age and decaying personality, he breathes in his surroundings. 

Mikey turns to them with vibrant eyes, and slaps Phil's back, throwing him off his feet for a moment. "This is it, guys. Welcome to the circus. Dont be a clown now, this could be the last chance we get to enjoy the show, hm?"

He's gone before they can say otherwise, and JJ hurries after him obediantly. Phil's just about to wonder what hes going to do with himself now, when Vic grabs his elbow, Hazel grabbing Dan's, and begins to pull him through a large mass of people, all far gone and engulfed in the bright, neon pink and blue lights flashing across their features. Malin lanks behind, uninterested.

"Have you ever been here before?" she says, quite loudly he notes, due to the mass amont of noise from both the booming music and people who havent a grip on themselves.

"No, i havent been to any such party really not since-"

"Mikey always brings me and Hazel here, you know. He brings other girls, too. And somme young guys, ones like you just much more- secluded i'd say. I can never quite remember the end of the night, though." she laughs, "Everything's always a blur. Dont you feel that way, Phil?"

Phil feels his body shake, and suddenly he realises something he wasnt meant to. His blood runs cold, and he feels the urge to never let this girl out of his sight.

"Yeah, i suppose so." he smiles unsteadily, "Do you feel unsafe here, Vic?"

She shuts her lips tight, and her eyebrows press together like she's waken up a bit, thought for the first time in awhile. 

"I feel unsafe everywhere. There's no where safe for me, i think."  
Phil grabs her hand and thinks, this is too many words for such a place. So, he doesnt speak, but hope his actions do, as he keeps her closer. The guilt of his envy for her not long before settles in.

"I want a drink. Do you want a drink, Phil? You think too much, why dont you have a bit of fun? Take the edge of for just tonight." 

They struggle through the crowd and to a lightly lit bar, that people stumble around, leaving drinks and cans to crumble on the ground somewhere. The man behind the bar shuffles around hurridly, eyes falling upon them and brightening. Out of the corner of his eye, Phil see's Dan, his arms wrapped tightly around yet another girl's waist, slipping away. He does seem like quite the dick, Phil thinks, and then remembers the note in his pocket and wonder what it means anymore.

The bartender asks for their drinks and soon he's taking two shots and holding a can of beer. He never was one to drink, at least, not anymore, but it seems the past few days were earth shattering and every sane thought, every promise, and every rule had been broken."Never again" and tossed drinks and broken bottles and lines of glass were suddenly forgotten, and a new disastorous world was put into play. 

The music around him boomed differently in his ears, now, and his steps were much less heavy. Vic says something, and soon she's gone and he's left alone and cant tell whether or not he minds it. Dan, still in the corner of his eye gets much closer, yet stays in the same spot, and Phil connects that for whatever reason he's moving toward the man, the stranger, the brunette with a boring name and glassy eyes that catch a grip of him he loathes. 

"I beat you, im here, im fucking here and im fine. You thought wrong, i'm stable." He says with a fire behind his eyes and words and for some reason its not nearly as satisfying as he'd hoped it to be.

Dan raises his eyebrows and brings his lips to the bottle, nodding his head. "I s'pose you are." Then, "I was only trying ti protect you, Phil. But i think you've brought yourself into somthing far more dangerous then either of us bargained for- hell itd be an overstatement to say the least we expected such a fate to arrive at our feet."

Phil thinks of all the we's and our's and how he wishes he was right, he wishes he wasnt a fucking psychopath that bled words from deep wounds that never closed really.

"Why're you in all this, Dan? You're different, you- are yoy different Dan?"

Phil's swaying, and his words topple over eachother as they're uttered, its as if they appear in the air only to drift apart and away from eachother, each syllable and each curve of a letter so much more than it should be. Dan nibbles on the end of his thumb and Phil wonders if he believes in soulmates, and why the whole concept of them is dumb really.

Dan fills his lungs with air and places his hand on Phil's shoulder, as if it needed a place of temporary rest.

"I'm different in the sense that i think, that i observe and i see. I'm not like other people really, but when im with them i cant decipher the me with them from the me that scribbles ink on paper and skin to get a kick. Maybe im different and maybe im like everyone else, terribly trapped and compressed into one of the many groups society built. I will not say that i put on a facade, 'a mask to hide the cracked skin' as every tryhard poet who believes themselves to be ground-breaking when really they haven't touched the grass like ibhave writes. But rather, if there was mask its built into some part of me, even if its miniscule, and i hate but cannot help that it has. I'll pry it off someday, maybe, at least from my surface, but within i cannot take back the experiences like these, but rather build off them. I hope i'll figure it out someday. "

Phil feels and drinks in every word that Dan delivers, and he cannot help but feel as though his very insides were being pulled out and placed before them. He doesnt say it, but maybe Dan knows. To him, it seems, Dan thinks a lot too. 

Phil grabs his arm and see's more clearly than he had all evening as he stares immensely at the features scattered about Dans face. He pulls him closer so that his mouth is next to his ear, and hr doesnt know exactly what hes going to say but hes made it this far so he might as well let his words flow like honey as they desired to. 

"you don't seem so boring anymore."

They're both grinning madly because they both know they're mad, and there may be a chance another mad man saw the world as it was, too.

The note in Phil's pocket doesnt feel so heavy and so he slots his fingers with Dan's to see if Dan's hands were as cold as the color red.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was quite lengthy so if you made it this far without losing it, thank you! i put a lot of genuine thought and feeling into this one, so i hope it was worth it. much love <3
> 
> (sorry for any typos i havent the care to edit rn ahh)


	9. stranger

Dan's face tightens together a bit when Phil's fingers glide over his own, and it makes Phil's heart beat considerably faster, a low thump in the pit of his stomach as deep as boom of the music surrounding the two of them. He doesn't have an explanation to it really, nor does he search for one. He wanders his expression, and considers that maybe he looks into everything a bit too much. He wonders how its possible for him to be so fond and so loathing of one person, one stranger, at the same time.

"You're shaking, Phil." Dan says, running his thumb across the back of his hand and watching how the goosebumps form up his arms at his touch, everlasting concern in his gaze, it makes Phil feel weak. "I'll grab you a beer and we can go somewhere quieter, that is, if anywhere here is quiet really." He offers, and all there is to do now is nod meekly, stuttering after as Dan calls for a beer, tucking it under his arm and handing away his own for Phil to hold.

Phil's breath is in throat as they stumble through the lot of people packed tightly together, body tossing around, helplessly as he pushes through the crowd like any other. His eyes are glassy as he looks around the room to the flashing lights, color's brighter and more faux and inauthentic then ever. What makes a color real and what makes it artificial?

He thinks of the name timothy and one-two-three and then countless thundering footsteps down a tile hall, colors dull and white wall's suffocatingly blind, curtains pulled back and concealing the last breaths of souls little came to visit. Blue eyes and translucent skin akin to his own icy cold unlike they used to be, fists tight and fists wrapped around a finger, eyes all the same.

Instead of a tiny fist, a larger hand than his own pulls him forward and tangles their way up a staircase, his eyes falling downward and allowing for a moment until the steps level out again. A strand of hair falls loose from its rightful spot when he decides to look back up, and soon his steps fall to tile, a door quick to conceal them in the only empty yet still cramped room for awhile. The sink is dripping, every few seconds or so a water droplet falls to the surface of the porcelain, and Phil doesn't mind it because it reminds him of rainy days during the cool spring mornings, by his desk peering out the window and scrambling to scribble words about the worlds he would envelop himself in.

Dan sighs and turns to the tub, pulling back the curtain and reluctantly stepping inside, seating himself in. He shrugs towards Phil, "beats sitting on a probably cum infested toilet seat" and grins, to which Phil follows suite and chuckles as the space gets more cramped, their long legs colliding. He hands Phil his beer and opens his own, tipping his bottle towards him and taking a long swig and sighing in content.

Its a few moments of silence apart from Phil's ragged yet slowed breathing, until Dan breaks it, words slicing through the air. "Why'd you go to that party the other day Phil? You didn't seem like everyone else there, hell, you don't seem like anyone else i know."

Phil shrugs and sips at his drink, fingers toying with the paper wrapped around it. "I hadn't left my house for god knows how long when i got the invitation. I dont even know who sent it. I used to know so many people, i used to have friends and a meaning and a purpose, and i suppose what i used to be bled into what i am now, and i decided one last dance was a perfect way to go." he pauses, "guess i didn't get a dance or a way out did i? Anyways, why were you there , drunkenly stumbling around in hoodie at a masquerade party doesn't seem to fit in quite well, either."

Dan nods, his eyes growing shallow, "well, i kinda broke in. Not actually, i mean, i'd had an invitation. I guess you can say it was revoked."

"why?" 

"Guess, my lives sorta bled into each other like yours did. My ex found out about this whole second life thing and went crazy, god we got into this huge argument. I was doing it all for her, you know. i think it was an excuse for her to go, id known she was seeing someone else the time anyways. She just never got me. Never liked to hear my words, i suppose"

Phil's fingers creep into his front pocket and cautiously play with the slightly crumpled paper. He itches to reveal the tiny sheet of paper as his gut bubbles with guilt.

"I like your words."

Dan's eyebrows knit together and its then Phil pulls out the paper he'd been hiding away fro so long. Its as if the only safe thing is ripped from his hands when Dan's eyes dart between Phil's own and the paper, and he snatches it away.

"Don't see why, they're all useless anyways. No one gets them, and neither will you" he barks skimming over the text on the paper quickly and flushing in embarrassment that some stranger might read something so vulnerable, so vivid and part with himself yet still not beckon away in confusion, disgust or judgement.

He scoffs and crumpled the paper in his fist, tossing it away as though it were nothing.

Phil shied away (as much as possible considering the the tight space), from Dan, his guilt settling but the alcohol blurring his senses enough to stop his thoughts from breaking free.

"You know, i kinda hate your name." he says mindlessly, and Dan chuckles, raising his eyebrows as if to query why.

"I really do wish your name was Timothy like i introduced you. Dan seems too short, and boring. I don't think you're boring, maybe i just hate three letter words. They're so odd."

Dan takes a few moments to pull this thought in, but his eyes widen in surprise, "You hate dog's? Or Cat's?"

Phil is quick to shake his head and laugh, "God, no. Pet's are the best." then "but they sure are odd. Maybe not in a bad way, though. I think, in some ways odd can be good, maybe."

"Red," Dan says, nodding. "Red is a nice odd word. it can mean a lot of things, like wine and the color the sky is for me sometimes. Or Christmas ribbons or apples in the fall."

"Or fruit punch on clean white suits." he snickers, and Dan punches his shoulder lightly, "shut up, at least it brought you here, right?"

"Where exactly is here? A bathtub in a cramped up party with a stranger?" Dan scoffs at that.

"so that's all i am, a stranger?" Phil nods meekly, "i mean, despite the events I've been pulled into, i have only known you for a few days, Dan. A few reckless, crazy days that i intend to remove myself from quite soon once i get the chance."

"You've been *pulled* into? Phil, i tried to steer you away from being here, tried to save your ass from this chaos and you rejected my help. It's not my fault you were being a stubborn git." Dan's realizing how his teeth began to grind, and his voice was becoming much too loud for such a place. He lowers it immediately.

"I don't think you understand, Phil. You're stuck in this now. What you heard today? that was" he hesitates, eyes flickering down before looking back up at Phil's, "that was serious. And with you knowing so much in such a small space of time? They'll keep a close radar on you, Phil. Hell, they'll probably pull you further into all this, with that charm of yours. Unless- you live with anyone? Got a kid?"

Phils breath hitches, "not anymore." and Dan's too cowardly to embark further and question which he meant.

"Fuck, i'm sorry but there's no way around this, then." he sets his empty drink aside, "i guess, if we play our cards right we can make decent cash on the way and work ou- your way out of it." Phil nods slowly in response, and wonders if he'd be much angrier about it all if he was sober.

"We?" he says, slumping forward just enough that he gets a smell of the cologne Dan's wearing.

"Yes, we, you twat. Who else have you got to help you with all this?"

Phil shakes his head, and smiles unevenly, "no one, you're right. I've got no one."

Upon these words, its as if the protective, half drunk protective barrier he'd has faltered. He's resting a hand on Phil's knee.

He gulps, "you've got someone. I'm someone."

"But youre a stranger, Dan. A stranger with nice words, and words speak so much louder than actions. But, maybe youre not such a bad stranger."

For some reason Phil's heart is beating considerably faster now, and he even rests his hand upon it. There's a silence, and it feels as though he's wearing his heart on his head, for his sleeve would be much too cliche. He wonders if Dan can hear it like he can, or if he can feel the spots where their figures collide begin to warm.

Dan hesitantly leans forward just enough that Phil can feel his breath on his skin, its ghostly. This feel's wrong, he thinks, he's a stranger a-

fucking gorgeous stranger with a boring name.

"Maybe, i don't need to be a stranger anymore." Phil's fingers unconsciously find their way to thread through the hair at the back of Dan's head. It feels nice, Dan's nice. A nice stranger that doesn't need to be.

"Maybe you can get to know me, Phil. Would you like that?" he asks slowly. Phil's unsure why he's been written here, into such a foul place that seems so havenous. The palms pressed to his thighs, rubbing small circles didn't do much to help steady his heartbeat or the flush spreading within his cheeks. He'd blame it on the the alcohol.

Phil nods, quicker than he'd have expected himself to, and Dan's hands already begin to edge lower.

"Yes," he says, voice breathy. "Let me know you, Dan. Make me feel, again."

 

[]

 

Their breathing is heavy, Dan's head resting atop Phil's chest in exhaustion. Phil thinks, Dan can most definitely feel the never-ending fast paced thud of his heart against his chest. It was all so mess, he didn't have to time to think, nonetheless sort out his feelings. Phil's neck began to cramp as the edge of the bathtub dug into it, his legs oddly entangled with Dan's. He's at a loss at to what he could possibly say, it all went so fast he hadn't the time to even conjure up an explanation to his sudden action.

Dan starts to slowly get up after a moment, legs shaky as he steps around Phil's and out of the tub. He sighs, watching as Phil's gaze looked so full of confusion, and a million things he hadn't the strength to wander into.

"This was a mistake." Dan says, and his heart tightens as Phil nods, eyes falling into his lap.

He felt like a fucking monster.

"Are you leaving?" he says, thumbs twiddling as he ignores Dan pulling up his jean zipper.

"Yeah, with you. You couldn't possibly make home from here on your own. You have a job you have to get going to, yeah?"

Phil, who looks utterly defeated

and far too gorgeous to be true, huffs out a breath and nods, sweeping a hair from his face. Dan decides against doing so for him. He wouldn't let his guard down for some charming, innocent stranger that somehow stumbled his way into this mess and had a way with words.

Phil, too, stands up, legs shaking as he does so unsteadily. He lifts his lanky features out of the porcelain and let his feet hit the tile, stretching out his arms to crack them.

"Alright old man, lets go." Dan says, probably quite too fondly, unlocking and holding the door open for him.

He was almost certain a few curious glances would fall their way at their long awaited departure but to his avail none came. He supposed everyone else here maybe felt like he did. Like the spotlight was on them and anyone could be quick to point out your flaws or something out of the ordinary. Truth is, the only vile foe, overlying beast and judgment that mattered was your own. And if you lived your life constantly worrying about others judgement, that only mirrored themselves, was a recipe to disaster.

and boy was Dan stuck in that mix.

Setting aside his own fear of himself and judgement of others, he reached to grab the upper of phils arm, securing his place and dragging him along and away from this place he wasn't suit to be in. His steps were much more uncoordinated snd his hips swayed unsteadily as he walked in an uneven line. Dan, much more composed watched his every step with caution, helping him down the stairs and eventually out of the building.

Then, he exhaled, the cool air of the creeping in summer draping over him, allowing for relief of the close proximity and body warmth that radiated off others just moments ago.

The sky was a deep, darkening blue, rays of the sun setting just peeking out before disappearing entirely. Darkness fell upon them, yet, few stars glistened brightly, the pale crescent moon allowing for the slightest hint of moonlight, along with the street lamps and signs hung from the windows of shops.

Phil stumbled unsteadily, Dan swinging his arm over his shoulder to allow for better support. He'd never had someone to do the same for him, instead left at corners, completely slumped and alone. He was glad he could be there for Phil, yet he'd gotten him into this situation in the first place. And for that, unbeknownst to him, he felt extreme guilt.

Phil turned to stare slightly up to Dan, being the shorter of the two. A grin had made way across his features, and he giggled. "I think your eyes are really pretty, Dan."

Something makes the pit of his stomach squeeze, and a warmth spread throughout him.

He clenched his jaw, "why? they're just brown, Phil. There's nothing special about them." he says, trying to rid any fond feelings.

"Yeah there is," he says pointedly, "They're your eyes. I think that makes them special." he tilts his head to lean it on Dan's shoulder, "pretty, pretty Dan with the brown eyes." he hums.

"Where do you live, Phil?" he says, ignoring the comment. people say stupid things when theyre drunk.

Parker street. I always liked to ride the wheel, liked to ride it with-" he stops himself, shaking his head a bit. "why do i always miss people who hurt me?" he thinks out loud, and Dan feels as though he'd been punched in the gut.

"I miss them too. I miss the me i was before they hurt me, the few good memories they gifted. Sometimes, when being hurt is all you know, being without it makes you feel lonely, You feel empty with the pain, and even emptier without it." he says, close enough to a whisper.

Phil nods, and he pulls out his phone to find the way back to Phil's flat, following on then silently.

[]

Phil takes a moment to furrow his brows and think before pointing out a specific building, near a fountain that stood lone and cold. Dan lets the water fall down onto his hand, before continuing his way towards Phil's place, somehow making it into the building and up to his room on one of the highest floors. Phil, luckily enough had his keys snug in the front pocket of the lent jeans, and took more than a moment or so to open up the door.

When he pushes it open, he nearly falls in, throwing the keys to the ground and already heading across the flat, significantly larger than Dan's.

Dan scurries in after him, _to make sure he doesn't trip_ , he thinks, and follows silently as Phil heads toward a door. He notes the childlike scribbles along the bottoms of the walls, and cant help but feel an ache through his bones, trying to avoid venturing too far into someone else's mind.

Phil's room is colorful, posters with shows and music Dan enjoyed, as well, hung on the walls. Assorted knick-knacks and house plants that seemed to begin growing brown laid across nearly counter top. He'd take note to that for later.

Phil flops down onto a bed with a checkered, blue and green duvet, sighing exaggeratedly as he did so, turning over the yawn into a pillow, then back to Dan who stood over him. Dan's eyes dart around the room, and he moves away to collect a post it note and pink pen, scribbling digits onto it, and setting it on his bedside table.

"That's my number, text me...whenever." He said, watching as Phil looked up at him with a far gone, tired expression.

He turns quickly, avoiding the stare and making his way out of the room.

"You cant stay?" he says, voice quieter than ever, yet just audible enough for Dan to stop in his tracks, a lump forming in his throat. Dan turns for a moment, allowing a simple upturn of lips. "I'll see you around, stranger."


	10. color

Phil doesn't dream, but he awakes with a ferocity he hadn't for ages. he sits up, blankets draped around him messily, wincing. his head pounds as though he'd been hit brutally, stomach rumbling and nausea creeping in the back of his throat. His face is covered with a thin sheet of respiration, and as he attempts to swing his shaky legs over the side of his bed, before his nausea gets the best of him and he's (thankfully), spilling his guts into the garbage can beside his bed, not thinking twice about ow it got there.

He curses, words slurred and blurred together, and he finds he can only pick apart fragments of the events that occurred yesterday. He skims over the cloudy memories before there's a painful twist in his gut, and as much as the pain had been physical this wasn't that.

He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, not caring at the lack of hygiene, and he sighs, looking over to his bedside counter and finding thin writing, scrambled along a post-it. He fumbles quickly to get it in his hands.

_in case your story writes for you to write me, dan x_

Beneath it is a number that Phil repeats a few times in his head before frantically searching his bed sheets for his phone. The note allows a flicker of a grin to spread across his lips. He discovers it to be on the floor, and once he stumbles to grab it from its place, he quickly adds the number to his contacts, probably much too eagerly.

He's thinking up something to text, before he feels a stir in his stomach, that has him grabbing the bedpost for support and making his way to the bathroom just in time to up more vomit. He groans shakily at that, eyes stinging and a sob wedged in the back of his throat. His head still thumped painfully, and he sighed, leaning against the wall. As often as he'd done this, in the past the pain never subsided.  He decided it was merely the hangover alone, but soon hazy memories of yesterday played like a forgotten film in his mind. 

The information he'd heard and recalled, that did nothing to settle his stomach. Someone was going to die, and he was stuck with such pivotal information, a new target. Dan said something about him being stuck in it all for even knowing. Could he go to the police?

 _God, no,_ he decided, replacing the thought quickly. He could be  _killed_ by god knows who _,_ and he would never allow that to happen on an others accord. He would die by his own hand. 

And Dan- dan could get into so much shit. He should really not care less, he'd put himself into this dangerous situation himself. Yet, Phil couldn't bear the thought of him being hurt any further.

He breathes out wearily, trying not to reminisce too much on the few things he did remember from the evening before.

His hand itches to reach his phone, and despite knowing he shouldnt cave so easily, he does, and his fingers hover over Dan's new contact before pressing the call button.There's a few rings before it comes to a stop, and crackling on the other line.

"What it is?" Dan spits almost immediately, and something about that tone both makes Phil want to pop him in the jaw and shy away forever.

"Dan." Phil says, voice scratchier and more raw then expected of himself. He says the name like it means something that it shouldn't.

"Phil?" he says, considerably lower and softer than before, there's a shuffling before whatever background noise there was goes mute. "Are you okay? You sound like shit, mate."

"I feel like shit." 

"You did get crossed yesterday.  i shouldn't have let that i happen."

Phil's about to say he's fine when what should be the last of the alcohol finds its way up his throat, and he's crouching over the toilet bowl again.

"S fine, i'm fine." Phil says, words slurred.

Dan curses under his breath, "no, you aren't. Do you want me to.. go over there and help you out?"

Phil wants to say no. He wants to scream and say he doesn't need help from anyone, especially not Dan. "please" he says, voice breaking,  and he sounds so fucking desperate he loathes himself.

Dan is saying how he's on his way, to hang on a bit longer, and hes about to end the call when Phil interjects.

"Dan...did- did we-?" he stutters, voice fading before he has the courage to speak those fateful last words.

"No." he says firmly, honestly. He's hesitating when he says, "not all the way, at least."

The line goes dead, and Phil is at a loss of what to say or think. He holds his breath, pinching himself  in hope he was able to wake up from this constant nightmare state. 

There's no awakening, but he finds his heartbeat increases incrediosly as he watched a shadow like figure whisper much too quickly, long, skinny arms reaching out to engulf him, holding his body hostage.

\--

He somehow managed to clamber beside his bed, grabbing a notepad and pen and allowing the black entity to place it's head in his lap, whispering every regret and mistake, guiding his pen to speak words he couldn't on his own. It's when Dan's name it's written that he hears a knock rap against the door. Phil jumps up at the sound and is soon quickly scrambling of the floor, regretting his agreement to Dan coming over. What was his presence going to change?

Nonetheless, he exhales shakily and makes his way to the door, ignoring the way he feels an entity hover over his shoulders, pressing its claws to his skin. He doesn't say anything as he opens the door, and peers out the crack to find Dan, gazing after him with genuine concern laced in his gaze, biting his thumb. 

It's not fair, how perfect and unaffected he is. He's standing there, prominent curls resting on his head in such a way the mess fits, his clothes not particularly special yet fitting his figure finely.

It's then Phil realizes how terrible he must look now. Still clad in the clothes from yesterday,  sweat on his forehead from the panic he'd had witnessing that terrible beast once again. He reeks, truthfully, and he feels like shit, headache never subsiding.

Dan's eyes widen at the sight of him, and he reaches forward to press his palm to Phil's cheek, a gesture that  made goosebumps rise and his cheeks flush only further. It was fleeting, yet not forgotten to Phil, as his insides turned.

"Jesus, you're burning up. You call in?" Dan says, and Phil steps out of his way to watch him wander in. He shakes his head.

"For fucks sake, Phil its nearly midday." he says to Phil's disbelief, and hes making his way to retrieve his phone as quick as he could. It's harder to speak formerly than he thought, and he cant help the regret he feels as he hangs up. For some reason though, Dan's concern and order made Phil less nervous in the slightest, a ghost of his fingertips imprinted in his mind.

He'd push the though away and not ponder too deeply on it.

""

Dan's wondered into his room when the call's over, and he's cross-legged on the ground eyes skimming over the notepad Phil had recently indulged himself in, astonished by the complexity and meaning behind the ink scrawled on paper. Its then, he spots his name. 

_be wary, foul man. for, as you face the depths of a narrow passageway your lungs may tighten, restricting your ability to respire and causing for your senses to be closed, for panic to settle in._

_within this road, a  blockage appeared. in the midst of trudging forth ward as the same mundane scenery repeated itself, only becoming tighter and completely_ unilluminated _now, something changed. i'm sure to trip over the roots of this rapidly growing  foliage, but even so i'm found to be curious of this new change in surrounding. i'm quite sure its poisonous, this vegetation, yet its sprouted so  bewitchingly, i cant help but be enthralled_. 

 _rob me blind of the color you've allowed me to see, dan_.

He watches carefully as Phil walks in and halts, not saying a word as he stares down at him with the same panic he'd had  when Phil had read is own writing. Had he been too intrusive? No, he supposed, maybe they were equal now. Yet he still felt a burning guilt and curiosity.

He wanted to ask him what it all meant, why he'd been honored to have is name written in Phil's whimsical sloppy handwriting. He wanted to ask Phil if he thought about the withering leaves on trees or patter of rain that never seemed to end in the spring, too.

Instead, he held out the pad for Phil to take, locking eyes with him, at an attempt to calm the tension between them for at least a moment. Phil had no reason to  _not_ hate Dan, and often he'd find himself not having second thought about how anybody felt toward him. Yet still here he sat, begging his eyes to show a sort of compassion that was surely impossible.

He didn't want Phil to see him the way other people did, and that was fucking terrifying.

Phil took it surely without much thought as Dan had and sat beside him, smoothing his thumb over the letters and casting his eyes downward, cheeks tinted pink in embarrassment.

"It's all probably shit. I don't get most of it myself, it was just free association writing is all."

"It isn't, god if that's free association i hope i can see what you write when it isn't." its a genuine truth, he hadn't heard someone think so intricately as he did. Though, he admits he shouldnt have spoken with such fondness. 

He doesn't miss the sparkle in Phil's eyes when he looks up from his lap, and his lips twitch upward ever so lightly. "Thanks."

Dan merely nods and rubs his back, standing up. "Well, you still look and smell terrible, so why don't you go take a hot bath or something? i heard that's great for hangovers. I'll make you something to eat."

Phil's about to interject, he knows, but he shushes him too quickly, "i came here to help. This was my doing, anyway, i'm just returning the favor."

"What favor?" 

"Not hating me." Dan shrugs. 

"I'm still deciding on that" Phil jokes but gets up. "It better be a five star meal, my stomach is fucking killing me."

Dan chuckles lightly, "wouldn't count on it, mate. now hurry your ass up."

He watches after him as Phil grabs a towel and a few things, crowding them in his arms and walking into his bathroom, clicking it shut behind him. 

Dan heads over to the kitchen on lighter feet now, brushing a strand of a curl from his face as he ventured the cabinets and fridge for any sign of something to make him, and his to surprise its nearly completely barren. Apart from a few expired boxed frozen dinners, and what looks like the remnants of chinese takeaway there's nothing.

He sighs, deciding it'd be best to leave Phil to do his own thing whilst he grabbed something from starbucks. 

Quietly, he slid out of the apartment, taking a picture of the apartment door in case the number slipped his memory. It was a miracle he remembered in the first place, but something about the way Phil clung to him drunkenly te night before had kept it fresh in his mind as he rushed there, panicked.

He slipped his hands into his black jeans, always ripped at the knee. He was sure if he lived anywhere that wasnt london he'd probably be blazing from the heat, but this summer seemed to take kindly to him so far. He slipped his ear buds into his ears, letting the sound of familiar songs play in place of the bustling traffic.

For a moment he recalled walking down this very pavement, arm over her shoulder as if to make a statement, rather than the intimate touch she seemed to make of it. He'd press his lips to her cheek, inebriation nearly always in their breaths when with each other. He wondered, if it'd have lasted as long as it had if they were sober more often.

Things always seemed to change so quickly, enough so not to allow Dan to brace himself. Or maybe things had always been ahead of him, and he was found in a constant state of having to catch up.

But lately, the events seemed to spike in intensity. He had zero idea of the path behold him, as his best friend of two years, Malin, had been entangled in this, too. The death of JJ. It hadn't happened, yet, obviously. But how could he bring himself to commit to something so foul? He decided, that when the plan fell into place, and he found himself to be the one behind cold lead in someones skull, he'd truly be the monster he saw in himself. The monster others believed and praised him to be.

There was no way out of it. He'd fought beside Mikey loyally, dealing to anyone vulnerable enough. He was sure to be the cause of many peoples downfalls, he knew. He'd spend late nights in the streets, beside ominous streetlamps hidden behind his hood, dropping poison into the hands of desperate people. 

Every time he did so, he made sure the pain was returned to himself in at least a minimum, once the door to his apartment had been sealed, and no one could witness his actions. A ritual, of sorts. 

There was a lot that brought him to that place, but he decided not to venture further into that thought, instead refocusing on the path when he bumped into someone, who scoffed at him violently. "Watch where you're going next time, dumbass."

Some things never change. 

-

Dan walked back in, fumbling to get the door as he held the bag in his hand, a tray with two coffee's in the other. He cursed as he dropped his phone, setting the bag  aside to grab it when his headphone entangled in the bag. He's about to curse even louder when he see'e the doe swing open, revealing Phil.

 A towel is hanging on his waist, his hair is still slightly damp. Dan's too busy reveling in his image for a brisk second, staring at the patch of hair of hair on his chest or the freckle on his collarbone when he hears his laughter rise, and he realizes he must look like an absolute fucking idiot, staring up at him, tangled in his headphones. He's not one to easily get embarrassed nor riled, yet here he stood. Or sat, on the ground, rather.

"Need some help?" Phil said with a raise of his brow, grabbing hold of his towel to secure its place and grabbing the bag from Dan's hand, taking his headphones and phone and dropping them into the bag. 

"You look less-like-shit" Dan remarks as he gets up the sound of Phil's responding giggle, making Dan's stomach flutter. He supposes it was probably the scent of the food making him hungry.

"If that's your version of a compliment, thanks. I'm gonna go get some proper clothes on." He says walking to set the bag on the table in the lounge and heading to his room, coming back sooner than he was gone, letting Dan unwrap his bagel and take a sip of his coffee, sitting down and tapping his fingers against the white table

"So this is the 5 star breakfast i was promised?" he query's as he moves to sit next to Dan on his couch, reaching for the bag. 

"Well yeah, i went to your kitchen to see what i could make but it was bloody barren. Seriously ate, what do you eat when you don't get take-out?"

"I don't." Phil says, clearing his throat and reaching for the remaining breakfast sandwich in his bag.

Dan almost hates to admit that that pains him, but he nods, not daring to push further. It seems, there's a lot more to Phil than he'd anticipated, more than he could decipher as of now. He watches as he reaches forward to grab his coffee, taking a sip and sighing exaggeratedly. "How'd you know i like double double?" he says, smiling at Dan lightly.

"Just guessed is all." he shrugs. "Or maybe im a mind reader."

"What on my mind right now, then?" he says, squinting his eyes.

"That im incredible for bringing you this fast food breakfast?"

"Close enough." Phil says. "Really, thanks though. I'm definitely feeling less shit." he says bumping shoulders with Dan and taking a bite into his sandwich.

 It's silent then, and just as he'd about to complain about the chewing beside him,  Phil reaches over to gran the tv remote and switch the television on, turning to Dan "is friends okay?" he asks to fill the silence, and Dan couldn't have possibly liked him more than moment. 

He nods, "perfect, actually."

They sit for a few episodes in, then, giggles rising every so often at the voices on the tv. Friends had always gave Dan a warm bubbly sort of feeling. Like having memories with fictional characters, knowing their experiences with one another. He supposes, the extremely ridiculous sounding, he should probably become less attached to people who didn't exist. 

As if Phil had been hearing in on his thoughts, he speaks up for a moment. "Do you ever get nostalgic for a past you didn't have?" he says, quietly enough that Dan may have not heard him f he wasn't paying such close attention his presence.

He hums thoughtfully, "yeah, i get that. with shows, you mean?"

"Yeah. Other things, too. Like songs and seeing groups of people sitting on the pavement late at night. Its like, it takes you to a memory you never had. Maybe one you wish you did, or maybe one you cant seem to remember. Seeing this show makes me feel that way, sometimes. Like their lives somehow connect to mine, like i've fallen in love with my best friend or cracked jokes in the most inappropriate times. there's this pain in my chest sometimes. Like i lived it before, or maybe its just longing. I cant seem to tell." he pauses, "i'm talking too much aren't i?"

 "No, you arent. I get it, actually. Sometimes, i listen to a song and it makes me real sad, hearing the lyrics and persons little story in a few notes. It's almost like i can be there, in how they're feeling. Or maybe their words describe how i'm feeling, too." He bites his tongue to keep from saying anything more vulnerable, instead, "you do talk more than i anticipated, though."

Phil digs a nail into his palm, chuckling, "Is that a bad thing?"

Dan finds himself frantically shaking his head, "not at all. seeing your writing and hearing your thoughts and everything just, it makes me think. Which is something i thought i did enough of, but hearing the way you think puts something more to it. Like, its not all just meaningless. Like someone else is thinking this much, too. I reckon everyone does, but no one seems to care, to put the effort into figuring out what it all means. Not like you. " 

He's staring more intently at him now,a strand of black hair fallen down his forehead, his smile is something brighter, and though he'd sure to have an aching headache right about now, Dan's almost sure he managed to have said something meaningful in the stray of words he lost himself in, at the way his lips tug upward in the slightest and he rubs his arm, looking down from his face after too short of a moment.

He feels foolish for it, but he sweeps the hair into its place with the back of his hand, and smiles warmly at him, staring into his eyes. He almost hates himself for it, the swirl in his stomach never letting up, especially not when he hears the hitch of Phil's breath.

his head is screaming,  _hes so full of color ,_ but he keeps his lips sealed, for now.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in all honesty, despite the amount of time it took for me to write this, im not quite fond of this chapter. nonetheless, im excited to continue exploring these characters and their way of thinking. hope you enjoyed <3


	11. eye for an eye

The rest of the morning consisted of hushed warm conversation, coffee sipping and pastry nibbling. Whenever a silence did occur, it was never a harsh one, them taking a few moment to gaze after the screen before breaking out into a fit of laugher at the foolishness of the familiar characters. Sometimes, Dan would look over at him, dimple carved deeply in his cheek as he looked at Phil with such a smile that made Phil's insides turn in a way he didnt like.

Once they'd gone a decent few episodes in, they decided to change location from Central Perk to rainbow road instead, to which Phil found out at an instant Dan wasnt too different to him as he thought. His discovery began when Dan began to chat his ear off about an anime he'd began watching, all whilst completely obliterating him in mario kart. 

"6th place Phil? Youre proper shit at this game." he bragged, whilst his character raised its hands in glee on the screen.

"I'm not! I got stuck in the item clusterfuck." he bit back, "besides how'd you get so good at the game? I didnt take you for a nerd."

"Oi, im not a nerd." he said, pushing at Phil lightly. 

"Mate, you just won three tourneys in mario kart while discussing attack on titan and defending Tobey mcguire to be the best spiderman."

Dan shrugged, "he is"

Phil scoffed, "Tom Holland was meant to be spider man, stan lee literally said so himself. Besides, have you seen spider man 3?"

"I have, and it's fucking art. whatever man, its probably just his ass you like." he snickered and Phil despised how quickly his cheeks flushed at that.

"Shut up, youre just a perv."

Dan shrugged, and a silence fell over them , one Phil intended to fill with another round of mario kart, when he saw Dan stand to his feet, staring down at him. His heart sank at that, realizing he'd probably been taking too much of his day already.

"I reckon you're probably busy and have to get going, but thanks for coming round and-" he begins when Dan cuts him off with a laugh.

"Phil you fucking spork, i was just gonna ask if youre well enough now to go on a walk."

"Oh." Phil blinks, dumbfounded, "right yeah, im pretty sure" he nods, getting up all too quickly and stumbling as the blood rushes to his head, making grain fill his head as he presses his palm to it.

Dan reaches out a hand, trailing it down his arm and grabbing his elbow to steady him, laughing gently, "slow down there, man. the worlds not going anywhere."

but you might his  mind bit back, and swallowed the the thought down.

It took a moment or so for his vision to go back to normal, head clearing though not entirely considering the faint touch dan had cursed his mind to think about a million times over.

"Right, yeah. Lets go."

\---

Phil gazed absentmindedly enough to zone out, hands stuffed in his pockets as he never knew what to really do with them anyway. The air blew against his face lightly every few moments or so, reminding him to keep his gaze in front of him, as to not do something stupid like trip up again.

He'd turn to look at Dan, too. Carefully observing parts of him he had yet to appreciate, the deep dimples indenting his face, the rosy patch and birthmark near his sharp jawline, the soft of his cheeks that contrasted the dark brown of his eyes, that shined only in the light of the sun.

and rudely, someone interrupted his mind with a raise of their voice, and only upon letting his eyes travel to those chapped, pink lips did he realise it was just the same person he'd been admiring a moment before. That only added to the list, the smooth of his voice.

"something on your mind, then?" dan says, gently jutting his elbow into his side.

"s'pose so." Phil mumbles, looking forward again.

"what is it?"

phil takes a breath, "its private" the most tedious call back to a movie that had him in tears by the end.

Dan hums, "so youre thoughtful, a nerd, and have amazing taste in films? what else is there left for me to discover about you, lester?"

"I reckon theres still a lot to unpack."

Dan nods.  "Let me, then."

Phil shakes his head confusingly at that,

"Let me... unpack it then. Let me get to know you."

His breath hitches at that, and he doesnt know why. Maybe, itd brought him to his own words that evening where personal space didnt seem to exist between the two. Maybe, the thought that Dan would leave at the end of the day like he had before pained him in the slightest.

"Sure youre up for that?"

Dan's hand brushes against his and his mind tries to convince him its anything more than a simple fleeting touch.

"If youre up for hearing my rants about the music im listening to, im sure i can put up with about an hour of talk about dogs."

That pulls a laugh out of Phil, and maybe, just maybe his chest feels lighter and he allows his his hand to brush Dans again.

"maybe it'll be a bit more than an hour."

\---

Phil never does question where Dan's leading him, and he find them winding down thin paths threading through crowds of people on the busy streets,  fumbling through the taller grass in the rather large park theyve been walking in. The way there is hardly found with any silence, as they banter and talk easily about shows and their favourite muse albums. They go off trail awhile, and Dan grabs Phil's arm to guide him to a slight opening, branches and trees blocking their way and forcing them to duck into the space, which is admitedly quite hard considering their height.

"This isnt part of the trail, Dan."

"I know, i come to this spot all the time."

Phil turns around to observe the way the trees hang above them, some thin branches fallen to the ground. Theres flowers scattered all across the ground, and the sun peeks inn through the leaves above only slightly. On the ground, he spots a few beer bottles crowded together, bugs crawling about them.

"Why here?" 

Dan shrugs absentmindedly, crossing arms over his chest and leaning against a tree, picking  at a few leaves. "Dunno, its quiet, no one really cares enough to venture in. Why? Not fond of it?"

Phil shakes his head, leaning down to pick a yellow petaled weed from the ground. "No, its not that. You just keep suprising me. Didnt really take you for the thoughtful introverted anime loving type."

Dan snorts, "Why, cause im caught up working with a bunch of mj rolling murderers?"

Phil looks up, bewildered, and Dan clears his throat, shaking his head. "sorry, not funny. I mean, Not all of them are completely fucked. At least, Malin isn't. We get on well, i reckon its cause we're in similar situations, or at least more so than the others. Besides, i didnt take you for that type, either."

"Well i suppose you didnt take me for any type at first. What did you have to work with? All you knew was that i tried to kill myself and that i have a weird obsession with the sky and words."

The realisation that that wasnt as far away as they made it sound, as it seemed, hit them and they fell into a weird sort of silence. The kind that may occur between two people who'd  gone from strangers to something akin to friends in the span of a few days. The kind of silence that may occur when they'd both realised they knew more about eachother than anyone in their lives had at the moment.

"Guess we both have our own little cocktails of fucked up things going on." Dan says, and Phil hums, tearing the grass from the ground and watching it fall from his hand, between his fingers. He didnt know how he'd go back to work the following day as though this long weekend hadnt occured. As though there wasnt a death being planned and he was aware of it. As though he hadnt begun getting to know about a rather pretty brown haired man who'd just gotten caught up in a life didnt deserve.

"If you werent working as a-" phil stops himself, unknowing of what to say.

"drug dealer." dan supplies flatly, and Phil gulps.

 "Right, that. Well if you weren't doing that, what would you be doing?"

Dan furrows his eyebrows in thought, and takes the bottom of his chapped lips between his teeth for a moment. "Im not sure, really. " he sighs, "I'd just dropped out of law when i got stuck in it all. I didnt know what to do, my parents kicked me out, and i didnt want to spend my whole life doing something i hated so much." he laughs dryly, "i guess this isn't all that better is it? I dont know, i wish i could go back. I always loved to act in theatre or write scripts for movies or something. I guess i couldn't be any farther from that than this."

Phil doesn't know what to do with all the new information he'd just been supplied, but suddenly he feels like he wants to cry. Its stupid really, feeling the need to weep for something that hadn't even happened to him whilst the person who experienced it stood in front of him with no tear in sight. Though he'd come to realise that Dan wasnt exactly as he seemed. 

"You could still do those things one day." Phil said, trying his best to sound hopeful, even if it was way beyond what was capable.

Dan looked to him, and though his expression said something much more negative, his lips quirked up and he offered him a smile. "Yeah, one day." 

Adruplty there was a ring tearing through the air, startling Phil as it came. Dan huffed put a breathe mumbling an apology as he pulled his phone from his front pocket.

Phil felt like he was intruding by listening in, which was stupid considering he was in front of him. Either way, he tried to zone out, focussing on the way Dan's voice went a little softer, more hoarse. Or how the bugs crawled beside the base of the tree, gathering there, in his sight yet in another world entirely. 

He did pay attention, however when Dan spoke again, intently listening to whoever was on the other line, "right, I'll be there. okay, bye." 

At those words, Phil's gaze is snapping back upward at Dan's, who's forehead creases in a way he doesn't like, his once serene expression had vanished into the air surrounding them. He sighed, watching Phil carefully, "We've got to go."

Phil didnt expect that. We? He was sure in other circumstance he would more than enjoy hearing those words from his lips, the thought of them as one, a unit, made his smile threaten to come to light. However, this wasnt that circumstance. The worry laced in his tone reminded him of that. 

"We?" he questioned, standing, much slower this time knowing he was better off steady on his feet. Dan shook his head at the question, grabbing at his wrist and tugging him forward. "C'mon i know a shortcut out of this place."

And there Phil found himself again, in Dan's shadow. Stumbling after him with his wrist gripped tightly, feet coming close to tripping on rocks and sticks alike, ducking beneath low hanging branches. They really were off the path now, and Phil couldn't help but let his mind wander as to who else Dan might have brought here.

Eventually, there was a clearing. A rather small one at that, and Dan's grip loosened at the sight of it, stepping through and ducking his head in, and as tall as he is he fit himself through the space ducking on the other side and waiting for Phil, who merely stood there.

"What the fuck are you doing? We dont have that much time come on-" he said his tone opposing the Dan he knew earlier. Quiet, tired, thoughtful Dan. Who liked words, pretty Dan, who's dimple indented his face as he laughed at some stupid joke Phil made. This one, this Dan, was different. 

This wasnt his Dan. But was any version of him, his, really?

"Who the fuck are you, Howell?" he said, and intensity in his tone that startled even himself.

Dan visibly stiffened, and his chest lifted and rised slowly, "I dont know, Phil. I mean, do you even know yourself? I guess, im who you want to see my as. 

There's so many different versions of me, i think. And of everyone. I dont know, but truth is i hate this version of me that snaps and ruins lives. Im too much of a coward to face the me i am alone, the empty, useless man in the mirror.  But the me i am with you, the one i was today, I like him. I like you, Phil. You make me feel like i could be better, or something. Maybe its fucked up, but this is good, you're good. 

Listen, i know how incredibly fucked this all is, but i need you trust me. It was partly my fault youre stuck in this situation, pulled into this story, but maybe it means something. Mikey calling for the both of us, just now when we happen to be together, it all seems so fitting, however the circumstance. Either way, ive got your back. I'll do anything i can to keep you safe, i swear on my life. Please just...come with me."

For many, reasons and none at all Phil takes the outstretched hand Dan has, and finds himself stepping through the clearing. When he's through, his hand is still locked with Dans, and their feet are facing toward the train tracks in front of them. 

"an eye for an eye, then." 


End file.
